


Thief

by Maygra, rache (wickedwords)



Category: Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace
Genre: Alternate Universe - Slavery, M/M, Master/Slave
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-11-12
Updated: 2000-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 15:51:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 30,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/993739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra, https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/rache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a new planet is to be offered entrance into the federation, Jedi are sent to inspect it, and they are arriving near the Festival of Mother Night. In honor of their visit, the government has cracked down on illegal activities, including the smuggling that provides Master Thief Qui-Gon Jinn with the drug he uses to say sane. His plans go awry, leaving him with no drug and a slave named Obi-Wan Kenobi.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thief 1: A Shattering of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> So, funny story. We wrote and posted this series on Maygra's website, which got infected with a virus sometime in the early 2000's and totally wiped out this story. Morgan Dawn was able to pull the six chapters we had posted using the website, and that is what we have posted. (And thank you so much for doing that! We thought this series was gone forever.) 
> 
> There will be no other chapters, so this is all there will ever be. You are welcome to finish things however you like. :)
> 
> Original Notes:  
> This came out of a little idle discussion of dungeons and architectural expansions (not to mention the tensile strengtht of silk) on #tpm the other night and then we dinked with it. We kind of liked the scenario so we dinked more. And...well, there was this plot thing...and Rache isn't happy unless it's complicated.
> 
> It started out as a simple PWP ...honest!

Dawn crept through the city, grasping fingers lighting spires and doorways decorated for the Festival of Mother Night. Silken fabric, rich and vibrant against the earthen brick walls, swathed archway after archway, silent prayers for prosperity and joy. Qui-Gon leaned against the railing of his balcony, watching as the city turned bright. 

He hated the light. 

Blinking, he turned away. Night was better for him, for his needs. The cover of dark made it easier to slip into a room and out again, taking whatever he wanted. A quiet word, and the owner of the house fell into a deeper sleep, never waking as Qui-Gon picked the most valuable of his property and spirited it away. 

Daylight was danger, with no comforting darkness to hide in, nothing to draw to himself and hide him from prying eyes. He would have preferred not to visit the city at all in daylight, but sometimes it could not be helped. 

Sometimes, like today. 

Palpatine's aide oozed insincerity as he told Jinn the news. "No laudnine until after Mother Night, Master Jinn. Governor Palpatine refuses to let the smugglers land. He says that the Jedi are coming to inspect us as part of our petition to join the republic." The man held out his hand for payment, despite the bad news. "He will let nothing stand in his way." 

Qui-Gon had paid for the information, though it did him little good. He stared into the cavern-like darkness of his bedroom; despite his efforts, the voices were getting louder, and the laudnine was the only thing that he'd found that would shut them all out. They whispered to him, needling and poking at the back of his mind, enticing him, luring him back into his dreams...or urging him to slake his thirst on another. 

His personal demons, constantly tormenting to choose the dark path. 

And sometimes...he wasn't strong enough to resist. 

He threw his robe onto the bed and picked up his clothes, pulling on the black shirt, black pants, and black boots. Festival clothes for Mother Night, he thought as he smiled grimly at his reflection. Not as if he cared. 

What he had cared about was taking a hostage and trading him for a shipment of laudnine. One ship was all he asked, some way to quiet the sounds in his mind. Qui-Gon ran his hand over his arm before buttoning the cuff, feeling the marks where he'd slit his own skin so he could rub the drug in, giving in for a moment to the shame his dependency brought him. 

A thief he may be, but that was an honorable profession. As long as he paid the guild's fees and stole only from those who had more than they needed, he maintained his self-respect. 

But kidnapping... 

He slammed his hand against the wall, barely feeling the pain. He didn't care, damn it. Governor Palpatine could rot in the deepest pit of hell as far as he was concerned; both of them would be meeting there, anyway. What mattered was the laudnine and taking it before the whispers drove him mad. 

He buckled on his sword and knife, and picked up his gloves. The Governor's son was supposed to inspect the central courtyard today, to ensure that everything was set for the festival. He would grab the boy and drag him back here; Palpatine would have to give him the drug. 

The voices laughed, and Qui-Gon gritted his teeth, ignoring them. Iska had once written out the formula for a potion that would supposedly control the craving; Jobi had read through it and told him that most of the plants in it were poisonous. If he took it daily, as Iska suggested, he would die. 

Madness, death, or whatever he needed to do to get the drug; he didn't have much choice. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

 It was supposed to have been simple, but the information that Rattle had provided was completely inaccurate. Qui-Gon fretted as he waited in the shade, drumming his fingers on his legs, watching the workmen assembling the viewing platforms. As his tension rose, the voices got louder, telling him not to wait. 

He caught sight of a small group of seven, one of whom looked to be the right age for the Governor's son. The boy chatted easily with the group, then climbed up on stage to check the projection equipment. Blond-red hair, fashionably cut, he was dressed in rich festival clothes. 

Qui-Gon couldn't make out the features from his vantage point, but it had to be Vree. 

He stretched, his limbs tight from the long wait, then reached into the pouch for the cloth and the ampoule. He had to crush the ampoule under the boy's nose and get him to breath it for the liquid to work, but it would put him into a light sleep in seconds. A few quiet words and that sleep would be so deep that Qui-Gon could move him easily, without fear of waking him. 

No muss, no fuss, and no fight. The voices were stronger whenever he fought, and without the laudnine, he didn't want to risk it. Even now the adrenaline racing through his system was making them stronger. He had to stop and take a deep breath, let them settle before he went on. 

Qui-Gon grabbed a jug of water as he passed the catering area and walked casually over to where the boy was working on the panel. "Thirsty work," he said, talking a swallow. "Want some?" 

The boy nodded, not even looking up from his work. Qui-Gon handed it to him, crushing the ampoule against the clay so it would break. 

The boy drank and handed it back. Within a minute he seemed wobbly; Qui-Gon lent him a shoulder and escorted him off the platform. 

No one even noticed. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

"He's not Vree." 

Qui-Gon thought his heart would stop. "What do you mean, he's not Vree? He's the right age, he was with the inspection tour." 

"Master..." Jobi looked at him. "Vree has brown eyes. And here..." He carefully unbuttoned the high collar of the festival shirt. 

A numbered collar lay against the boy's skin. 

Anger surged through Qui-Gon. Lost. His chance was lost. He had someone's play toy, rather than the governor's son. He clenched his hands into fists, then relaxed them again, trying to keep the clamor of voices at bay. "I'll take him to the cellar." 

The boy stirred in his arms, but Qui-Gon ignored him. His heart pounded, his anger and disappointment were a wind screaming threw his mind. Revenge, the voices cried. 

Kill the boy. 

The image of warm blood ghosted over his hand and faded again. He froze midstep, trying to master his thoughts, set the dreams aside. He had to do something; his fingers ached to take that sleek throat in his hands and squeeze the life from it. 

Sleek. 

His cock twitched. 

If not blood...sex had sometimes worked. And the boy was beautiful, a pleasure slave...it would not be something new. 

He swallowed convulsively, his blood warming to the thought, and knew he was lost. He was too tired tonight to resist. The voices beat at him, eclipsing his own thought, demanding their appeasement. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

Obi-Wan struggled as he was hauled into the cold, dark room and thrown into a corner. His heart pounded, and his hands trembled; he knew his life wasn't worth much at the moment. The black-clad man folded his arms across his chest and glared at him. "What am I going to do with you, boy?" 

"Whatever my master pleases," Obi-Wan said carefully, hoping that the fact that he was property would stay the man's hand. "There's a fine if I'm damaged." He put his hand to his face and rubbed at the kohl on his cheek, smeared during his capture and itching like crazy now. He scratched it and sank into the darkness of his corner. He braced himself cautiously, looking for any opportunity to escape. 

"I don't plan on damaging you, if you co-operate." The man stalked over and grabbed Obi-Wan's chin, tilting it up into the light. Bright blue eyes stared into his, fixing him to the ground as if he had been nailed there. Obi-Wan breathed slowly and carefully, trying not to hyperventilate as his face was tilted to the right, then the left, every angle examined. Large hands ran down his arms and his chest; Obi-Wan wasn't sure if he was checking for broken bones, or ...something else. 

All he wanted was to stay alive. He would do whatever was necessary to ensure that. 

At last the hand dropped, and the man loomed over him. "You are not who I was expecting," He spat the words out. "Who are you?" He pressed his boot into Obi-Wan's thigh, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough let him know how much it could hurt. "Or should I ask who owns you? " 

"I'm a...city slave," Obi-Wan said steadily. "I was assigned to the courtyards today for the festival." He swallowed carefully, lifting his chin slightly, but the man held him firmly. 

The man brushed at Obi-Wan's cheek, a soft caress after the boot-clad warning. "Well, whoever you were, it doesn't matter. You are mine, now." His voice rumbled, deep and low and threatening. "I just have to pay the fine." 

Hands in his hair pulled Obi-Wan closer; he immediately wrenched away. 

"No!" A city-owned slave he might be, but he didn't work the brothels or the pleasure houses. Twisting, he sought to reach the door. 

The man grabbed him and shoved him back against the wall, taking both wrists in one hand, staring into his face, his chest pressed tight to Obi-Wan's body, restraining him. "Don't make me hurt you." 

All Obi-Wan could smell was the man's breath, mixed with his own fear, and the slight scent of arousal that emanated from the man. For a moment he thought he saw a hint of compassion in the other man's eyes; Obi-Wan's own cock twitched in response, betraying him. 

Compassion vanished instantly, covered by the cold light of obsession, and the hands that gripped him became even more demanding. Obi-Wan groaned softly, a reaction to the pain, he told himself. The power radiating off the man was exciting, erotic. 

He hated himself for liking it. 

"You are pretty enough for my tastes, I'll grant you." The man reached down and ran his hand between Obi-Wan's thighs, caressing his cock, feeling Obi-Wan's erection. "How many have had you today, boy?" He smiled, feral, like a desert cat, grinding his hand against the hardness there. His eyes locked on Obi-Wan's throat, and Obi-Wan thought his skin would burn from the heat of his gaze. "You won't need anything, will you?" 

Obi-Wan tried to pull away, but the large hand around his wrists held him firm, and the hand between his thighs pressed cruelly as he struggled. Anger sprang up, and fear, pushing aside the arousal. He wasn't a virgin; he knew where this was going, and any excitement he'd felt drained away. He had to do something to get away. "I said I don't work the houses," he hissed and spat in the other man's face, hoping the shock would make the man drop his hands. 

Just as he hoped, the spittle seemed to catch his captor by surprise, and he jerked, just enough for Obi-Wan to put all his strength behind getting his hands free. He shoved, only to feel the hard edge of the man's palm along his jaw. 

The man hauled back and slapped his face again, and Obi-Wan felt his head connect with the stone wall. His vision blurred, then cleared again, but his ears still rung. 

"Don't try that again," the man whispered, twisting him and shoving him face-first against the stone. "I can make this less pleasant for you, if I have to." 

Obi-Wan dragged in a cautious breath, the man's voice echoing oddly in his ears. His vision blurred again, but he held his place, fingers digging into the stone. 

He couldn't think of what else to do. 

Whatever he needed to, he told himself. He would survive. 

Pushing a shoulder back, he tried to look at his captor, his cheek pressed against the stone, seeing the hard, cold look in his captor's eyes and the set of his mouth. "Wha...what do you want?" he asked, brokenly -- he knew, but he needed time, time to set his mind to this course. 

Hands ran up the length of his festival shirt, the silken caress making him shudder. He closed his eyes and breathed shallowly, trying to imagine himself anywhere but under that touch. Fingers ghosted along his neck, and under the collar of his shirt-- 

Gripping it, tearing it away, nails scraping along sensitized flesh, making Obi-Wan scream. 

"What I wanted," the man said, "was the governor's son, Dathan Vree. What I got instead was you." He bit the back of Obi-Wan' neck, then blew on it. "I wanted a hostage and ended up with a toy." His voice hardened. "What do you think I'm going to do?" 

Obi-wan shuddered. The feel of warm breath on his skin might have been pleasant if he had been able to choose this course. The room was damp and cold, but he shivered from more than the chill. 

"Do you have a name...Master?" he asked, dropping his gaze. Play the game, do what he had to. At least it wasn't his first time. 

A low, rumbled laugh greeted his hesitant words. "Qui-Gon Jinn," he said, "but Master will be fine." He pressed his groin against Obi-Wan's back, the hard length of him fitting neatly against Obi-Wan's ass. 

"I am going to have you." He tugged at the waistband of the pants Obi-Wan wore, then fumbled at his belt. Obi-Wan heard the rasp of metal on leather and felt the tip of a blade tucked in to the waistband of his pants. "Don't move," the man growled, his hands trembling where they touched Obi-Wan's skin. "I would hate to cut you too deep." 

Obi-Wan went totally, utterly still as the thick blade sliced through the fabric of his trousers, then sucked in a breath as the blade tip grazed his belly. 

The fabric separated easily, falling like spilled water over Obi-Wan's hips, exposing his groin and then his legs as Qui-Gon cut again. The breath Obi-Wan had been holding exploded out of him as the hand still holding the blade gripped his genitals, the blade edge grazing his hip and leaving a thin line of red. 

The man fondled Obi-Wan's shaft, sliding his hand down and around it. Obi-Wan could not stop himself from hardening under that knowing caress. The man grunted once, then slid the knife back into its sheath. He fumbled with the lacing on his pants and pulled out his own cock. 

He slid closer, wrapping himself around Obi-Wan, his cock resting between the cheeks of Obi-Wan's ass. "If you want it wet," he murmured, "turn around and suck it. Otherwise, I'll take you just like this." 

It was no idle threat. "Whatever pleases, my master," Obi-Wan said, in a voice he hoped was like those used by the brothel slaves. He pushed against Qui-Gon lightly, and the man eased his grip enough to let him turn. Carefully and slowly, Obi-Wan let his back slide against the wall until he was on his knees, Qui-Gon's hand tangled possessively in his hair. 

With wide eyes, Obi-Wan watched the knife drawn out again. "If you bite or fight, boy, I can have you dying as easily as living," the man murmured in a low voice, an easy smile on his face that did not reach his eyes. 

Still moving slowly, Obi-Wan wiped at his lips with the back of his hand, feeling the swelling at the corner of his mouth where he'd been struck earlier. Qui-Gon's cock hovered before him, erect and thick, flushed and hard. His hand shook as he reached out to grasp the shaft, eyes closing even as his mouth opened. 

He wasn't sure if he hated this, or not. 

What he expected fled his conscious mind as his lips closed over the warm flesh. He was still unwilling, but a daring dart of his tongue provided no disgust, exactly. It was...not repulsive. He took a breath and then lost it as the hand in his hair suddenly jerked him forward slightly. 

"Don't pretend it's your first, boy," Qui-Gon mocked him, and Obi-Wan drew a breath through his nose, barely checking his instinctive gagging. 

Lips and tongue moved around the thick weight in his mouth, and he had not forgotten the warning. Moisture from his mouth slicked the hot shaft, and the grip on his hair, while not relaxing, became more of a firm massage. His hand spread the wetness from his mouth along Qui-Gon's cock, and he heard a throaty chuckle above him. 

He felt the man relax against him; Obi-Wan quickly glanced at the door. 

Hands gripped his hair painfully. "I think not," the man murmured. 

Obi-Wan let a startled cry escape as he was jerked forward, his own hands reaching up to try and wrest Qui-Gon's from his scalp. The full weight of his captor pressed him back again, knocking him hard against the wall with enough force to drive the breath from his body. 

That blade, that shiny, lethal blade was pressed to his throat, Qui-Gon's face close to his own so that he could see the myriad shades of blue in the cold eyes. "Turn around," the man hissed, one leg pressed against Obi-Wan's groin. A sharp nudge sent pain spiraling upward through Obi-Wan's body, the promise of more if he failed to obey apparent in the rubbing Qui-Gon did with his knee. 

"It's a waste of the city's resources to have you setting up tables and trestles for festivals. They'd have made back more than your price by chaining you to one of the brothel beds." That soft caress against his jaw again, and bitterly Obi-Wan found himself pressing into it, enjoying the gentle touch. "I would have been willing to pay coin for you myself." 

The thought sent another shiver though Obi-Wan's spine, followed instantly by white-hot anger. He was worth more than this, worth more than anyone would ever pay for his services, whatever they might be. 

Someday, he promised himself, he would be free. 

His attention must have wavered. He was wrenched forward and turned, once more pressed face first against the wall. He tried to relax, knowing it would hurt less if he did, but it seemed an impossible task. He pulled his arms over his head to cushion himself against the cold stone. "Do it," he whispered. "I'm yours." 

Obi-Wan's fingers once more clutched at the stone as he felt Qui-Gon press against him, the slick, hard length of his cock stroking once more between his buttocks. Another nudge and his legs parted as he struggled to regain his balance. 

He heard the blade being replaced in its sheath. 

Warm arms wrapped around him, enveloping him with their strength. "Relax, boy," Qui-Gon hissed against his throat. "It doesn't have to hurt." 

Instead of relaxing, Obi-Wan tensed up even more, trembling under Qui-Gon's hands. The reaction angered him, pointing out how little control he had. Obi-Wan sucked in a breath, feeling the pounding of his heart against his spine. 

His head was turned, and his swollen lips covered by Qui-Gon's, his mouth invaded by Qui-Gon's tongue. The kiss deepened sweetly, surprising him more, gentling him, and despite himself Obi-Wan relaxed, opening himself to the warmth. 

Kiss, or no kiss, Obi-Wan was not prepared as the head of Qui-Gon's shaft thrust into him. Piercing pain shot through him, ripped up his spine, and through his brain. He pushed against the wall in panic, only to feel Qui-Gon's hard cock impale him more deeply. 

As quickly as that he collapsed forward again, the other man's mouth leaving his. The sob that escaped him was wholly unavoidable, and suddenly it was only Qui-Gon's grip on his hair and around his stomach that kept him upright at all. He drew another ragged sob as he felt the other man pull back and press in. The pain was not as sharp as before, but it was still pain. 

Slowly, the pain eased, his sharp gasps softening into mere pants of discomfort. Qui-Gon's hand slid down Obi-Wan's belly and stroked the soft, silky length of unaroused flesh. He cupped it and stroked it in time to his own thrusts, leaning ever more heavily against Obi-Wan's back. Obi-Wan felt Jinn's grip on the back of his neck soften to a near caress; he could hear the man almost humming as his body fell into the rhythms of pleasure. He toyed with Obi-Wan's body, playing with his cock and balls. He lifted, pressed up, changed the angle; Obi-Wan hissed as each new sensation ripped through him. 

Qui-Gon chuckled softly and increased his pace. 

Half dazed from an odd mixture of pain, fear, and resignation, Obi-Wan let his captor support him, forehead pressed to the cool stone. It took him long moments before he realized that the other man was trying to pleasure him. 

It seemed odd. 

Before he could make sense of it, he felt another sensation, this one electric and surprising, race along his spine. 

"I told you if you relaxed it would be better," Qui-Gon almost purred against his skin, then there were no more words. He heard the quick harsh gasp, felt warmth deep within him, and the deep and straining pressure inside increased for a moment before Qui-Gon let all his weight press Obi-Wan to the wall. 

For long moments they remained there, Obi-Wan unable to move with the weight against his back and the shock, and Qui-Gon dragging in great gulps of air, until he bestirred himself to move, pulling back a bit, just enough to free himself from the tight sheath of Obi-Wan's body. 

When his captor stepped back, Obi-Wan did not move. It was not fear this time that kept him immobile, but the knowledge that if he did move, he would fall. 

Qui-Gon reached down to gather up a bit of Obi-Wan's clothing, cleaning himself before casting the cloth aside. He gripped Obi-Wan's shoulder and turned him. 

Obi-wan didn't want to look, but knew he had to. The madness he'd seen earlier was hidden no where in this man's eyes. 

He had survived. 

Obi-Wan staggered until Qui-Gon gave him a small push, setting his back to the wall. "And now, what to do with you, boy?" he said, half to himself. 

It took all Obi-wan had to think, almost more than he had to speak. "If...if you send me back...like this...they will send me to the houses," he said. "I don't want to go to the houses." Not if every encounter is going to be like this. 

"It's where you should be," Qui-Gon said evenly, watching him. "But I will give you a choice. You can go back to serve many, or I can buy your contract, and you can serve one." 

The defiance fled under confusion as Obi-Wan stared at him. "Buy...why?" he said before even considering the offer. 

The smile Qui-Gon gave was less cold than weary. "Because...this way, I only have to pay for you once." 

Hardly time to think at all. One, or many? One who had taken him all unwilling, or many who would care even less if he were willing. He was a slave. 

The hesitation seemed to make Qui-Gon impatient. "Back it is, then," he said. 

"No! No...I'll stay," Obi-Wan said, almost falling again as he tried to stop Qui-Gon from leaving, shame flushing his features. "Better one than many." 

"Yes," Qui-Gon said softly, "better one than many." He caught Obi-Wan's chin; his touch was not as cruel. "Don't ever displease me," he warned. "At the moment, my temper is not as it should be." He dropped his hand, his manner formal. "Do you have a name?" 

Obi-Wan nodded. "Obi-Wan..." 

Qui-Gon smiled, vanquishing the formality, and covered Obi-Wan's startled mouth with his lips once more. "That will do." Suddenly, he released Obi-Wan and stepped away. "With me then, Obi-Wan," he said and turned away. 

Obi-Wan was quick to note that his new Master's hand never strayed far from his knife. Hesitantly, he gathered up his torn clothing, able to fashion only a loin wrap from what remained of his festival clothes. 

He wanted Qui-Gon dead.  



	2. Thief 2: Arrival on Nascalli

Mace Windu read through the briefing on Nascalli, infuriated by the lack of information. It was as if the planet had just appeared twenty years ago, when their civil war ended. The planet had made an appeal to the republic then for support in re-building their infrastructure, but nothing had happened after that. Mace skimmed through the rest of the paperwork -- ah, the old Governor had died, and the new one had withdrawn the request -- and found statistics on population, weather, architecture, everything except anything on what the people were like. 

He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, thinking. He and Jana would be the first Jedi to set foot on this planet. It would be important that they spend some time separating the myth of the order form the reality of their visit. 

His comm unit rang. "Yes," he replied curtly. "What is it?" 

"We'll be landing soon, Master Windu. I thought you'd want to be informed." 

"Thank you, pilot. We will be ready." 

He thumbed the unit closed, letting it rest against his chin as he planned out their arrival.  
  

* * *

Another slave, or a servant, came to him after Qui-Gon had left, bringing towels and showing him the small bath. Obi-Wan bathed, the hot water easing the aches from his body. When he emerged, he found new clothes, and laying atop them, a slave collar. It was untagged, and he fingered it, reaching up to remove the one he'd worn previously. Looking at it, he saw that the activation light on the old collar was off. 

The light on the new one glowed a soft blue. His new master had paid for his contract. 

Obi-Wan put it on last, wondering idly what would happen if he refused. Recalling the cold look in his new master's eyes, he had a fair idea. His fate would like be no easier, either way. 

It was hours before anyone came for him, and he spent it examining his room, small though it was. The window of his new room was large, but it was barred and static-shielded. Extending a hand more than a few inches beyond the bars produced an increasingly painful shock -- Obi-Wan tried three times. A bed, a table, shelves for clothes and towels, the window, and the small bath with its toilet and shower and sink. There was no window in the bath. 

The window had a ledge wide enough to sit on, and he perched there. He could not see the city square from there. Qui-Gon's home sat on the narrow border between the opulent and socially correct city center and the slums of the west side of Hellesta, Nascalli's fourth largest port city. 

Obi-Wan did not know Hellesta well, for all that he'd been here over a decade. He had started as a page in the government buildings, running errands, housed with other boys and girls his age, taught enough to be able to read the addresses on the missives he carried and to work the chamber consoles at the behest of the committee aides. He'd been collared then, as well, a sleek strip of flexible metal marking him as public property attached to the government. For some reason, before coming there, he didn't think he'd had a collar, but he couldn't remember. It had all been too confusing and too long ago. 

Pages only worked until puberty. New ones were always coming in, being trained. One by one, those pages he had worked with had graduated to other duties. They were never told where -- it wasn't a slave's right to know -- but rumors and speculation had existed. Some went on to other services in public works, or the state-run farms. Others had been tasked with servant roles, cleaning and serving meals, caring for the needs of government officials in public housing, and still others had been marked for the public brothels or houses of pleasure on the west side of the city. 

Pages were more or less invisible, and most knew far more than their masters might credit. He knew almost to the penny how much revenue such places brought to the city and the costs of keeping such places running, but very little was said about the slaves themselves, save for the attrition rate in the quarterly reports. This many new slaves introduced, the costs of cremating the ones who had died -- how the privately owned and borderline legally-operated houses were doing much better because the services they offered were more varied, and the relative ages of their prostitutes was lower. 

Not until he was tapped for Hellesta's Public Works did he ever see one of the public, or private, houses. Perhaps mercifully, he'd never met one of his former dormmates, or if he had, he hadn't recognized them. But then again, most of his tasks had involved dealing with support systems of the plumbing and power services. He had shown a deft hand at fixing minor circuitry. He had been wiring the tables and booths with lights for the festival when Qui-Gon had taken him. Mistaken, Qui-Gon had said, for the son of a diplomat, no doubt in the entourage that had been inspecting the festival set up. Idly he wondered how the festival would go. 

It was nearly dusk before Qui-Gon reappeared, entering Obi-Wan's room with no warning, the suddenness of his appearance almost causing Obi-Wan to fall from his window seat, he was so startled. 

The austere face was unsmiling and tense. "Come here," he commanded, and slowly, Obi-Wan obeyed, going to his knees when Qui-Gon indicated he should do so. The large hands caught the collar at his throat and twisted it slightly, almost cutting off Obi-Wan's air, but it was only for a moment before he heard the small 'snickt' of sound and a soft beep as the tag was affixed to his collar and locked. 

"You cost me more than I expected," Qui-Gon said on releasing him. "Don't make me regret that cost. " 

Obi-Wan waited, wondering if his master was going to explain exactly what would cause such a regret. 

Qui-Gon was still regarding him. He had changed clothes, as well, wearing now a pair of soft, loose trousers, tucked into the soft unheeled boots he wore. A loose black shirt under an equally dark vest, no color at all save the silvery grey streaks running through the black hair and the blue of his eyes set into the tanned skin. No jewelry or embroidery broke the unrelieved black of his clothing. 

"What would you have me do, master?" Obi-Wan asked, remaining where he was. 

A flicker of a smile eased the harsh expression. "You mean besides warm my bed?" he asked, the smile growing wider when a flush filled the pale cheeks. "You are likely to excel there. Other than that, make yourself useful. Jobi is the Warden of my house. Find him, and he will put you to work. I will return late. Jobi will see you to my rooms when the time comes. Perhaps I'll bring you a pretty trinket for that braid of yours, from the festival." Qui-Gon said, chuckling softly when Obi-Wan's blush deepened, then laughing out loud at the flash of anger in the grey eyes. "Watch that temper, boy. It's a wonder you weren't beaten for all the freedom you give it. Up. Jobi is downstairs. He'll have the control on that collar, and he's not afraid to use it." 

Biting back his resentment, Obi-Wan followed his master, taking in the structure as he had not before. It was a narrow building, the master's rooms on the far side of the hall from his own room, which was on the corner, the outside walls and windows exposed to the storms of Hellesta's short but brutal winters. A steep, narrow stair with no railing led to the main floor where the kitchens and main rooms lay, and below that the stairs leading to the windowless cellar with its massive wood and metal door and three bolts. He stared at it for a long moment, body tensing at the memory. The sound of Qui-Gon's voice calling for Jobi jerked his attention around, and he hurried to catch up. 

Jobi turned out to be a massive bear of a man, taller even than Jinn. If he'd had fur, he'd have been a Wookie. Muscular and dark skinned, his hair was red as flame, eyes green as emeralds. He grinned broadly at Jinn, showing a set of teeth stained brown, but the smile was genuine. Across the table from him was another slave, an old woman, face wrinkled under the tattoos that marked her as one of K'sketh \-- the non-people who wandered Nascalli's outlands. They spoke no language that anyone could understand, their customs were strange, and only rarely did one ever see them in the cities. She glanced up as the master entered, then dropped her eyes, moving around the table carrying a wooden bowl filled with bread dough for kneading. She walked awkwardly, her left leg twisted and deformed. Both of them wore slave collars. 

"That is Iska. She understands well enough. Jobi, I've business. See that he works and is in my rooms at the second bell," Qui-Gon said gruffly, the only introduction he made. 

"You should eat, Master," Jobi said, slicing off a thick piece of bread and lathering it with fruit preserves. 

Qui-Gon stared at it for a long moment. "It's not what I need," he said, barely audibly. 

"But it will help," Jobi persisted, offering him the bread again. 

Something flashed across Qui-Gon's face, but he took the bread and bit into it before turning on his heel to leave. 

Obi-Wan watched him go until he was poked in the shoulder. Jobi offered him the same meal he'd offered his master. "Make sure the fires are hot enough for Iska's bread," he ordered, pointing to the large oven and the fuel bin beside it. 

For the rest of the evening, Obi-Wan did that and other tasks in and around the kitchen. It was baking day, apparently, and if he wasn't stoking the ovens, he was hauling water. Another servant came in once, an older man, as grey as Iska, but unmarked by tattoos. His voice had a soft, raspy quality to it, and when he turned his head, Obi-Wan could see the long scar that traversed his throat. Teban kept the rooms cleaned and took care of the master's clothes and person. Of all of them, only Jobi spoke, and he had no care if there was an audience or not. 

But Obi-Wan learned much with Jobi's endless talk. Neither Jobi, nor Iska, nor even the meek Teban, were particularly afraid of their master. Jobi told tales of his master's escapades with great pride, seemingly unconcerned that Obi-Wan was listening. Even Iska cackled at some of them. 

Had Obi-Wan not known otherwise, he would not have credited that the master Jobi spoke of and the man who had so brutalized him were the same man. 

* * *

Qui-Gon knew every street and alley in Hellesta and how to traverse the rooftops to anywhere without being seen. He kept to the shadows as much as possible, silent and still, the darkness an old lover draping herself over him. 

Tonight he was more reckless than usual. He started with Snatch, who'd lost three fingers due to earlier incompetence, and whose information was now always accurate. From there he went to the lover of the second privy councilor, who had a taste for fine things. A few coins and he knew the name of man to talk to at the brothel that Dathan Vree, Palpatine Vree's son, frequented on the edge of the west side. 

Grimly, Qui-Gon knocked at the door, knowing what he'd find. He'd used this place once himself. 

The door opened quickly for him, One-ear having his name on file. The bald guard motioned him to enter and gestured at the stairs; Qui-Gon handed him a coin and nodded his thanks. 

Jahat knew what he wanted before Qui-Gon asked. 

Hooka in hand, his voice dreaming with smoke, he was still the consummate businessman. "Don't take him here, that's all I ask. Palpatine can level this place if you do, and it's all I have. I'd never be able to scrape enough to start over, so please wait." He gestured at the door. "He's three doors down with a pair of ten-year old girls I found still fresh from the farms. He'll be done in two hours, and when he leaves, he will be so high he won't be able to recognize anything. Take him then, and we'll all be happy." 

"You don't seem to be concerned for him." 

"I'm not." Jahat's grey eyes met his own coldly. "He's bad for business, him and his friends. My clientele prefers to keep things on the quiet side, as well you know. He and his friends come here, and the rest of my regulars scatter. " He took another breath on the pipe, holding the smoke in for a moment, before blowing it lazily out. "My only concern is whether Palpatine cares.?" 

"The boy's his heir," Qui-Gon growled. "He's got to care." 

"If it was one of his by-blows, I might say yes, but this boy...I don't think even his mother could love him." 

"What a blessing it is that she died, then," Qui-Gon said archly. 

"Yes, it is." Jahat blew another smoke ring. "Just take care, Qui-Gon. Take the boy in one of the alleys far from here. And if he gets hurt in the process," Jahat smiled, "make sure it's his face that's marked." He rubbed his own face where a thin scar decorated his right cheek. "The boy is quite proud of his looks." 

The bargain was good. Qui-Gon nodded his agreement. "An unfortunate accident, I'm sure." 

"Good." Jahat waved him away as he settled back onto the cushions with his pipe, their meeting at an end. "Two hours. Be waiting. He never takes more." 

True to form, Dathan stumbled out of the brothel a little less than two hours later; he was Qui-Gon's ten minutes later. 

His blood sang with the power of the fight, and the voices told him how sweet it would be to have the boy now, just as he had taken Obi-Wan. Similar height, similar build...and not yet touched. 

Qui-Gon pushed the thought away and threw the boy over his shoulder, heedless of the blood that dripped from Dathan's broken cheek. At home, it would be safe. Home first. The hostage had to stay in one piece. 

He slipped back into the cover of night and carefully worked his way home. 

* * *

Just before midnight, they landed at Hellesta, one of the planet's larger ports. Mace had tucked everything away and had their bags ready to be off-loaded once they were cleared. He and Jana were in full formal robes, and she seemed impatient to be out of their cramped quarters, pacing the hall as he watched. 

Finally, she stopped, and Mace realized she's been considering something. Empathy was not his strongest skill, he was better with actual thought projection, but the two of them managed well enough together. He would be sad when she was knighted. 

"Master," she said softly, looking about her as if she could be overheard. 

"Yes, Jana? What is it?" 

"Something is not right." She leaned in close to him, the tip of her long, black Padawan braid brushing his arm. "I have been trying to be mindful of the Force, as you have said, but I cannot divine the meaning of my unease." 

He nodded in agreement. "I have felt unsettled since we first entered the planet's atmosphere, but have been unable to pinpoint the meaning as well. It does seem stronger now." 

"Is it a warning, do you think?" 

"Possibly. I will see if it is any clearer before we disembark." He took a deep breath and reached out, trying to get a feel for what the force might be telling him. 

Only...it didnât feel like it should. Where he was used to feeling the lightness and energy that surrounded and connected all living things, there was like an oil, coating it, hiding it from view. 

His eyes opened in wide in shock, and he drew back from the contact. Something was very wrong here, the planet felt twisted, somehow, as if everything that lived had come under the influence of the dark side."Be wary, Padawan. Not all is as it seems." 

She nodded slowly. "I lean upon your wisdom, Master." 

He flushed, her confidence a little unsettling. He would have to contact the council about the feel of the Force here; there was no telling what it could mean. 

* * *

It was after midnight when Jobi's sudden movements toward the rear of the household roused Obi-Wan from a light doze at his place by the fire. The ovens were cooling, but he had been told to wait before restocking them for the next day. Jobi didn't seem to mind that he'd dozed off, and Iska had long since disappeared from the kitchens, perhaps to her room. Jobi apparently slept in a small antechamber off the kitchen. 

He jerked awake, and Obi-Wan followed him, out of curiosity, if for no other reason. Behind the kitchens, beyond the store rooms, and he saw Jobi disappear into the darkness, only to emerge a few moments later carrying a limp body in his arms, garbed in rich cloth, blood on its face and staining the rich robes. 

"Get the master wine, boy," Jobi barked at him, and Qui-Gon emerged from the darkness as well, looking tense and pale. Even as he ran to get the jug and a glass, Obi-Wan was dumbfounded. He had been in that store room a half dozen times, and there had been no door or window. 

He was pouring as he returned. Jobi was at the wood and metal door to the cellar, the captive slung over his shoulder like a sack of flour. Wordlessly, Obi-Wan offered Jinn the cup of wine, and his master drank it down in one gulp, then followed Jobi down the stairs. Not knowing what else to do, Obi-Wan followed. 

Qui-Gon barely noticed he was there save to thrust the cup at him again to be refilled and drink it down again before tossing it away. Jobi was moving as if he'd been given instructions Obi-Wan had not heard. The fine clothes were stripped off until the young man was naked, and already the limp body reeked of sex and blood. The room was dim from the low level shadow lights set in the walls. Obi-Wan took in the room's purpose as he had the rest of the house. Boxes and stores lined one side, but the other wall, a wall he could recognize by feel alone, was bare. Above them were hooks set in the rafter, some laden with more dry stores, others bare. 

"I'll need the clothes as proof," Qui-Gon said huskily as Jobi set to binding the prisoner. "Put him up, then leave me." 

Jobi glanced quickly at Qui-Gon, mouth set, then glanced at Obi-Wan, jerking his head toward the stairs as he lifted the body to suspend him from one of the hooks hanging from the rafters of the low-ceilinged room. 

"What are you going to do?" Obi-Wan asked, mouth dry as he saw Qui-Gon remove his vest and then pluck at his belt. 

"Exact a little revenge," Qui-Gon said softly, not looking at him. "Leave me, Jobi, and take him with you." 

Scarcely knowing why he did, other than the wrongness here bothered him, Obi-Wan protested. "You said you needed him for a hostage." 

"Among other things," Qui-Gon hissed at him, turning to face him. The blue eyes were dangerously dilated, the strain in his face apparent in his jaw and the tightly clenched fists wrapped around his belt. "Remember your place, boy. You have taken his place once -- are you so eager to do so again?" 

"Come away, Obi-Wan," Jobi said quietly. "There's no reasoning with him now," he said, and it stuck in Obi-Wan's brain that at times it must be possible to reason with his master. 

Dathan Vree moaned just then, diverting Qui-Gon's attention. "Would that I had your father's damnable drug, and I'd return you to him as addicted as I am," Qui-Gon hissed, gripping his captive's chin while he waited for him to come fully to his senses. "But I'll let him know that he is no more safe than his son, and get my price, as well," he said, running his hand down the young man's chest. 

Watching him, Obi-Wan saw the faint trembling in the large hand. He blinked as realization struck him. Laudnine. Qui-Gon was addicted to the drug. Obi-Wan knew of it, how it altered personalities and moods, leaving the user in a dreamy state, even eased those whose minds were perpetually disturbed in some cases. But it was extremely addictive, so its use as a medicinal was limited. The lack of it in the addict could produce the exact opposite reaction for which it had been designed. Violence, aggression, hyperactivity, extreme to the point of sociopathy at times: all were signs of withdrawal. 

"If you do this, he will hunt you down," Obi-Wan said evenly, reaching out carefully to touch his master's arm. "More wine will ease--" 

He didn't hear Jobi's warning, didn't realize that Qui-Gon was far past mere withdrawal, or even reason. All he saw was the blur of the belt, only the wine jug he held keeping the leather and metal from opening his face or his chest. The jug shattered, and agony ripped along his arm so sharp he doubled over, only to scream again when the belt bit into his back through his tunic. Then again, tearing cloth and skin. 

He knew nothing but red-edged pain from then on as the leather cracked again and again. Vaguely he heard Jobi shouting, and a scream that was not his own, then it all vanished into a haze of sound and shadow and pain. Some of it his own, but some was an agony he did not recognize as his own, a pain in his mind that lasted and stayed with him long after consciousness had fled. 

* * *

Their transport arrived at the guest house, a single story building connected to the main residence by a series of covered walkways. The simple elegance of the squat granite building was overshadowed by the spires of the palace next to it, but Mace preferred its simplicity. It looked cool and clean, which was more than he could say for the rest of Hellesta, too many poor packed into too small a space, the air reeking of urine and sweat. 

But here on the hill overlooking the city, there was no smell as such. Just the cool, clean scent of trees and grass, and whatever the Governor's cook was baking at this time of the morning. 

He felt it then, the dark oil of the Force in this place, crying out in triumph. He gasped as it lanced through his mind, like a hundred voices screaming out their maddened desire-- 

The voices abruptly cut off. 

* * *

Someone grabbed his arm. 

Qui-Gon turned and snarled at the man who held it. Jobi slammed his fist into Qui-Gon's stomach, making Qui-Gon double over in pain. Jobi grabbed the belt and used it to tie Qui-Gon's arms behind his back, then took another length of rope from what they'd brought to use on Dathan and tied Qui-Gon's legs together, then ankles to wrists. 

The voices screamed at Qui-Gon to reach out, to take the power they offered him and use it on Jobi, but the pain in his stomach and arms drowned out the sound that they made. He screamed, he thought, and lashed out-- 

And saw Obi-Wan lying on the floor. 

His face and arms were a mass of bruises and welts; at some point, the boy seemed to have curled into a ball to protect his face. His clothes were torn again, and blood dripped from several gashes. 

Qui-Gon closed his eyes and swallowed. He could not let this happen. 

* * *

Mace staggered, and Jana was there beside him, steadying him, concerned on her face. "I'm all right," he said softly, his raised eyebrow asking her if she'd felt it as well. 

A quick nod and then his Padawan was elbowed out of the way, the unctuous Governor Palpatine taking her place. 

"Are you all right, Master Windu?" He asked solicitously. "Is something wrong?" 

"No, nothing, thank you. I am merely tired from my trip." He wrapped his arm around Jana's shoulders and let her appear to steady him; it might be good to plant the image that he was not well at the moment. He had the feeling that it would be good for Palpatine to underestimate their strength. "My last mission was quite taxing, and I fear we have had little time to rest." 

Jana smiled sweetly, playing the young girl role that so became her. Mace appreciated her ability to play the kitten when she was more a mountain shark. "Yes, barely enough time to pick up clean clothes before we were on our way here." 

"Well, if you are sure that's allâ¦" Palpatine's voice drifted off. "I will send a servant to look after you in the morning." 

"That will be unnecessary," Mace said haughtily, knowing it was the right tone to pick. "Jana is more than capable of looking after my needs." 

Mace thought he glimpsed a smug smile cross the Governor's face, but it vanished before he was sure. "This way then," the Governor prattled. "Follow me." 

* * *

Jobi said nothing to him, just picked the boy up off the floor and left Qui-Gon in the darkness with Dathan. He could hear Vree breathing, so he knew that Palpatine's son still lived; he wasn't sure if that would have been the case had Obi-Wan not intervened. 

He smiled grimly. Obi-Wan's reward for that selfless act was to be beaten within an inch of his life. If Jobi had not stopped him... 

There had to be some way to gain control of his life. 

Eventually, Jobi came back, but instead of saying anything to Qui-Gon, he spent his time moving Dathan to the hidden room. When he was done, he simply squatted down next to Qui-Gon, as if waiting for his master to speak. 

In this case, he was happy to oblige. "Will the boy survive?" 

"I believe so." Jobi nodded. "It is a bad beating, but nothing appears broken. It could have been worse." 

Qui-Gon maneuvered himself to sitting position, having made his decision in his time alone.. "Wake Iska. Tell her to make up the potion." 

"Master... it will kill you." 

"And this won't? " he snapped back. "Look at me, Jobi. You bound me because I nearly beat a boy to death -- I boy I raped earlier in the day." 

"I know." Jobi said quietly. "But the plants are poisonous--" 

"I don't care." Qui-Gon rolled onto his side. "Jobi...it felt good." He stared at Jobi, his servant and friend for these past dozen years, and tried to find a way to make him understand something that he didn't really understand himself. "They call to me, Jobi, the voices. They tell me to act on my anger, my hatred, my rage." He swallowed around the knot that had formed in his throat. "One of these days...you won't be able to stop me. It would be better to die." 

Jobi nodded slowly. "I will wake Iska." 

"Thank you." Qui-Gon whispered, praying that the potion would work. 


	3. Thief 3: The Painted Paths

Darkness gave way to grey, the silence muffled voices whispering about him. The pain did not give way, save that it was so steady it became familiar, but being familiar made it no less vicious. 

"Ease him on his side, Jobi." The voice was familiar, as well, but quieter. Accompanying it was that same remembered echo of pain in his mind, and he shrank away from that as much as anything. 

"The more you move about, master, the faster Iska's potion will lose its effectiveness," Jobi's deep voice answered. "I can manage such a small one." The voices faded in and out, murmurings caught as if between the arches of a great hall, becoming muffled as stone separated the speaker from the listener only to bloom again, over loud, as both passed an arch. Yet Obi-Wan had no sense of moving save a kind of rocking that made him nauseous and soothed him all at once. And even when they faded he could hear the voices muttering in his brain. 

Concentrating on the voices distracted Obi-Wan for a moment until he was moved, and then the pain burst through him again. He gave into it, but all that came out was a sob when he wanted to scream. The murmuring in his head became louder. 

"Almost done, little one," Jobi murmured and something cool and numbing touched his back, the sudden relief almost painful in itself. 

With the most demanding of his agonies thus brought to heel, reined in, the whisperings faded. A hand, large, but gentle, lifted his head, supporting his neck as a cup was pressed to his lips. The liquid tasted sharp and astringent, but not unpleasant, and it was cold. He drank greedily, almost whimpering again when the cup was pulled back to force him to slow down. "Slowly, Obi-Wan." Qui-Gon's voice. He knew it, but gone was the rage, the raspy undertones. This version of his voice was quieter, not a whisper, but slower, the hard edge to it gone. 

He agreed to the entreaty by sipping more slowly, letting the coldness ease his throat, though he could not recall immediately why his throat should hurt. The rest of him, yes. The pain of the beating had faded, but not the memory of it. 

"Bring up broth and more hivit for his throat." Qui-Gon again, not speaking to him, and Obi-Wan opened his eyes a bit, almost closing them again at the brightness in the room. "And check to see if Vree has responded." The edges of his vision blurred, but he could see the speaker, turned away from him, the profile of his face visible as he spoke to Jobi, who appeared as no more than a hulking shadow on the edge of his vision. 

"Teban would have informed you, master," Jobi said. 

"Check anyway!" The anger, barely checked, was back in his voice. Silence fell between master and slave for long moments, but when Qui-Gon spoke again his voice was calm once more. "We will need fresh linens for this bed," he said more reasonably. 

"As you will it, Master," Jobi said resignedly and moved away, the soft sound of a door closing, leaving Obi-Wan with his master and his fear. 

"Again, Obi-Wan." The cup was pressed to his lips, and he drank. "You've screamed your throat raw, boy. They should have made you a Crier for the news." There was a soft chuckle, and the cup was set aside. A cool cloth was wiped over his face and then pressed to an ache he had not acknowledged, his left eye throbbing and refusing to open. His right eye would, though, and it was easier to do with the left held closed by the cloth. 

Qui-Gon was looking away again, away from Obi-Wan's face, at any rate. It was hard to recognize this pale-faced, haggard man as the madman who had beaten him last night, who had raped him yesterday. He looked more worn for some reason, the arrogance and anger lost under a cloak of brittle fragility that seemed to weigh him down. When the blue eyes fixed on his face again, Obi-Wan tensed. Qui-Gon said nothing immediately, only soaked the cloth again in a bowl and applied it to Obi-Wan's eye once more. 

"You are either very brave, or very stupid, boy," Qui-Gon murmured, leaving the soothing cloth on Obi-Wan's face while using another cloth to bathe at his throat and shoulders. Each touch brought a remembrance of pain, only to fade again as the cloth eased swelling or fire from wounds he had yet to see. "The hivit will help," Qui-Gon said idly. "Jobi has put dermaplast on the worst wounds on your back. A few days and those will ease, as well -- he thinks the scarring will not be too bad." 

Did Obi-Wan imagine it, or did his master hesitate on 'scarring'? Regret from a madman. 

Laudnine. An addict. More of the events rushed in to fill the empty places in his memory. 

"He will come and move you to your stomach once the 'plast has set," Qui-Gon said, as if he were talking about rearranging a room. The cloth moved down Obi-Wan's arm, and he found himself looking at the limb, swathed in bandages from finger tips to below his elbow, some places dotted with darker stains. He felt little pain there, just discomfort, and his fingers moved. 

And quite suddenly Qui-Gon's face was very close to his own, and he pressed back against the bedding, but there was no anger in Qui-Gon's face only a kind of intensity, an urgency. "Listen to me, Obi-Wan. Do not do such a thing again. Had Jobi not stopped me, I would have killed you, and a dead slave is of no use to me at all," he said flatly, then considered, the expression on his face changing slightly. "Or perhaps that was your plan? I think you should reconsider, little one. In my right mind, I am not so bad a master. Or so Jobi tells me. Then again, even I would have some difficulty in beating him." The thought seemed to amuse him, and he sat back, once more bathing Obi-Wan's skin. 

"The drug..." Obi-Wan said, wanting to ask, but those few words were all he could manage before he coughed, and the coughing ripped through his throat as if he had swallowed bits of glass. Once more Qui-Gon's hand supported his head and offered him a cup, water this time. It helped, and when Qui-Gon eased his head down to the pillow again, that large hand brushed over his forehead, tenderly as a mother's, sweeping back sticky bangs. Qui-Gon's hand was cool, almost too cold for a living thing, but it felt wonderful, and Obi-Wan closed his eyes briefly. "Laudnine," he said in a whisper, the bare sound not tearing at his throat so. 

"Yes." Obi-Wan's eyes opened again at the brittle tone. "Leave me be when you see me thus, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon warned harshly, but the touch on his face was still gentle. Another sound and Jobi returned, Teban behind him bearing linens. His vision was not so blurred now. 

Qui-Gon looked at his large slave expectantly. 

"Nothing as yet, Master. I've fed the prisoner. Can I have your permission to gag him? Such a filthy mouth he has," Jobi said, chuckling at the memory as he set his tray of goods down. 

"As you like," Qui-Gon muttered and rose, lifting his hand from Obi-Wan's brow. "Jobi will tend you. I'll be in the bath. As soon as word comes..." 

"I'll not delay, master," Jobi said solemnly, and Qui-Gon nodded and rose, stiffly, the lethal grace Obi-Wan had seen before all but gone. He left the chamber, but not the rooms, leaving through an open archway to the left, Teban following silently with towels and clothes. 

For the first time, Obi-Wan realized he was not in his small room, but in a larger one, still spare, but not so barren. The bed he lay on was no narrow cot, and the window was twice as wide as he was tall and unbarred, opening to a long, but shallow balcony, the heavy shutters thrown wide. 

"Drink this," Jobi said, holding another cup to his lips. More hivit, but this had a more bitter aftertaste. "Give it a moment to work, then I must move you to change these sheets." 

Obi-Wan said nothing, but he could feel the drug or whatever it was working through him, dulling his senses somewhat. Not enough to slip him back into the darkness, but enough to numb him so that when Jobi lifted him, the movement was bearable. A low padded bench with a back became his temporary resting place, and a blanket warded off the chill of the room on Obi-Wan's over-sensitive skin as the giant stripped the bed of linens stained dark and rusty-colored where Obi-Wan had lain. New sheets, then, and a soft pad that might have been of some thick fur. Back again to the bed, Jobi lifting him as easily as child and settling him on his side to check his earlier handiwork. "They've set well," he said and eased Obi-Wan more onto his belly, his touch on the youth's bare skin impersonal and sure. The fur felt soothing and soft, and the sheets and blanket pulled up over hips and back soon had him warm again. Closing his eyes, Obi-Wan let himself sink into the comfort. 

"Tempt him again, boy, and I'll beat you myself," Jobi hissed softly in his ear, and Obi-Wan went still. "He should have sent you back, but he's a soft spot for strays. You, Teban, Iska -- even myself. You've right mighty airs for a slave more fit for the brothels than honest work. Aide to some government lordling, no doubt. Well, you aren't now, and you'd best remember that. He's a good master, is Jinn. The best I've known. Keep his bed and keep his secrets, and keep your opinions to yourself. You've no idea what he needs, and it isn't some whining bed boy keeping his conscience. He does enough of that on his own. You are a slave," the last was growled in his ear. "You remember that." 

* * *

Qui-Gon had spent more than he should have on his bathroom, remodeling it when he'd bought the villa.  The tub was larger than most, and the shower -- the sink stood higher than was standard as well.  The room was sized to fit him, which was a comfort; everything else in the world reminded him of how he just couldn't fit in. 

Such extravagance on such a common room.  Even the floors were heated through a pipes that ran under them, carrying water warmed by a geothermal heat exchanger.  He found he ached lately, even when the weather was good; the heat seemed to help with that. 

He deliberately didn't look at the blue clay bottle of Iska's potion, sitting out on the carved countertop near the bathroom sink. 

Once a day, every day, he thought, until either he had the laudnine again or he died or the effect of the draught faded. Slowly poisoning himself, clinging to his life -- 

Was it really worth all the effort? 

So simple, to pick up the bottle and drain it, to have done with everything.  So simple...and yet...he couldn't do it.  He had too much respect for life to cut off his own like that, and there were far worse lives in the city that the one he wore.  If they continued, he could as well.  There might be a use for him yet. 

He smiled and picked up the bottle, pulled out the stopped and poured himself a spoonful.  The liquid was a blue-green color and smelled like a cross between dirt and burnt bread.  He stared at it, the voices chittering at him, telling him he didn't need the liquid anymore-- 

There had been a time in his life when the voices had not lied, the way they did now.  A farmer's son, the voices had been merely the sounds of grass or plants in need of water.  But after he was conscripted into the army, and fought in the unification wars that had all changed. 

To think he had first thank Palpatine for getting him the laudnine.  What a fool he had been. 

Qui-Gon noticed he still held the spoon clutched in his hand.  He gulped the liquid down quickly, and set the spoon on the counter beside the bottle, his body already shaking with reaction. 

Where the laudnine was gentle, Iska's potion was harsh, burning through him and killing off the connections in his mind that the voices spoke through.  No warm buoyant blanket for him now, no gentle, surrealistic peace.  Instead, he struggled to keep the contents of his stomach in place, dropping to the floor in case his legs decided the cold not support his weight. 

So cold...he couldn't feel the heat of the floor any more.  His vision faded and there was a ringing in his ears that faded, and Qui-Gon found himself able to curl into a ball, his teeth chattering, his hands twitching beyond his control.  Sweat poured down him, chilling him even more, and his body spasmed as it tried to regain some heat. 

Finally, the episode passed. 

Qui-Gon pulled himself upright and staggered over to the tub, turning the hot water on full.  He climbed in carefully, and settled back against the curved back of the tub, and hoped the water would warm him. He held one thought close to him:  he would not beat Obi-Wan today. 

The thought gave him a moment's respite. But neither could he be gentle, he chided himself, the water finally turning his skin pink.  Obi-Wan could not trust him, and he needed to drive that home. 

* * *

Jobi withdrew, Obi-Wan not daring to draw a deeper breath until he was sure he was alone again. It wasn't as if he was likely to forget his position anytime soon, he thought, reeling on the edge of despair. He felt more a slave now than he had since he was first collared at six. His bandaged fingers gripped at the bedclothes until they ached. His grip on the bedclothes helped ground while he thought so hard, his head spun. In forty-eight hours, all the worst things he'd heard about the lot of some slaves had come true for him when before they had been no more than rumors. Being a public slave was a better fate than being privately owned, he'd always been taught. Beating a publicly owned slave incurred harsh fines. Killing one was the quick route to the slave rotations for the murderer. Private slaves had few such protections, save those common for all. They could be beaten, even killed by their masters. 

He should have let Qui-Gon return him to the state. Even the public houses had to be less perilous than this, in a house with an addicted madman of a thief and kidnapper, under the supervision of a man who could snap him in half if provoked and who seemed to be provoked easily. 

Testing his own strength, he pushed upward, biting back on the pain that lanced through his back and side. He could push himself up to sitting, only once there, he had no idea what he thought he was doing. Did he think he could still escape? As stringent as the punishment for injuring or killing a state owned public slave might be, the penalty for a slave who attempted to escape or run was even more severe. Even if he could somehow remove his collar, where could he go save to the fringes of Hellesta and try to eke out a living some way, begging or stealing without the support of the thieve's guild. No doubt he would end up as Jinn had suggested, serving in one of the less savory brothels. He was trapped here as surely as the governor's son was trapped below stairs. 

"Do you feel ill?" Qui-Gon's voice interrupted his thoughts and he looked up to see the man standing in the door way wearing nothing but a bath sheet, Teban standing a few steps behind him. The question was spoken softly and before he could answer, his master was crossing the room toward him. 

"No," Obi-Wan said, voice harsh from the rawness in his throat, the tone harsher still. Qui-Gon stopped, eyes raking over Obi-Wan's form until the younger man reddened, jerking the sheets awkwardly over his nude form. "I'm well enough, master. Enough to seek my own bed," he said quietly, moderating his tone 

Qui-Gon almost smiled. "Were I not so sure I had not nearly beaten you to within an inch of your life, I might be tempted to let you try and return to your room, just to see you fall on your face," he said. "Oh, lay back, boy!" A slight irritation tinged his voice as he waved at Teban who brought him an ankle length tunic. Exchanging bath sheet for tunic, Qui-Gon slipped the garment over his head. "Even were I physically capable of it at the moment, I'm not going to ravish you as you are." He belted the tunic and came to Obi-Wan's side, gripping his shoulder and pushing him firmly back against the pillows again and drawing the sheets up to his chest. 

Watching his master warily, Obi-Wan nevertheless almost broke eye contact under the steady gaze. Not that Qui-Gon was looking at him particularly proprietarily or appraisingly, but the regard was deep for all that, as if the man could see into his very thoughts. "I think your life must have been very easy for a slave," Qui-Gon said after a moment, easing his long frame down onto the edge of the bed then reaching for the pitcher and glass by the table. "Teban," he said quietly when he drained the pitcher. The slave came forward to take it away to refill. Qui-Qon offered the cup to Obi-Wan first and inclined his head slightly when the youth refused. "They worked you hard enough, it's easy to see." His eyes took in the muscles of Obi-Wan's arms and chest but it was impersonal, so very different from his earlier lustful gazes. "You were no virgin," he commented. 

"No," Obi-Wan said. "But not..." 

"A whore. Yes, I remember." 

"You thought I was," Obi-Wan snapped back, too late realizing his temper was likely to get him in trouble. 

"An old and honorable profession -- or it used to be," Qui-Gon said mildly. "And none have tried before? You were dressed finely for such a task." 

Obi-Wan shook his head slightly. "I...I work the power plant mostly. They need extra help for the festival and we were to stay, to help things run smoothly. " 

The blue eyes measured him, weighed what he said. "Doing what at the plant?" 

"The circuits...the power relay conduits that run the city system -- the lights and the water. We were rebuilding the ones at the main station. Taking it out of the planetary link and making Hellesta a closed system." 

"And why was that?" Qui-Gon asked, seeming only mildly interested, but talking was better than...just about anything but sleeping at this point. Teban returned with the pitcher and another cup, then stood to one side, awaiting his master's orders. Qui-Gon ignored him, waiting for Obi-Wan's answer. 

Obi-Wan shrugged, grimacing as a minor pain skimmed up his back. "I don't know. I suppose, in case something happened to the main's in Lineath. Storms or...something. I only altered their coding, as I was instructed. Perhaps they wanted an extra amount of safety for the Republic representatives." 

"Were you close to finishing?" 

"A few days," Obi-Wan said and tried to clear his throat. Once more Qui-Gon poured water then held Obi-Wan's head while he drank. 

"Those circuits are very small. So you are deft with your hands, with the tools you used?" 

"The supervisor thought so," Obi-Wan said with a small amount of pride. Such things had always seemed to come easily to him, as if he could see the patterns as they were supposed to be, once he knew what they were supposed to do. 

"Clever and beautiful," Qui-Gon said quietly and Obi-Wan tried to be offended, but it was difficult. Or perhaps he was just tired. Qui-Gon's hand came out again to brush gently over his bruised eye. "I usually have better control, boy. But keep this in mind should I lose it again," he said and started to rise. 

"Master?" he said hesitantly and Jinn stopped, looking at him. "The...governor's son. What are you going to ...do?" 

"You are concerned about him?" Qui-Gon asked and the soft tone was underlined with something colder. "Afraid he'll suffer your fate? He should. Would, if I did not have another use for him." 

Obi-Wan didn't like the edge of anger in the blue eyes and looked away, only to have his chin gripped firmly, but not painfully. "Don't waste your pity on him or his kind, Obi-Wan. By all reports he is no better than his sire and like to be worse." Qui-Gon released him. "If it eases your mind, I won't kill him without cause although if he could be tried, death would be the easiest of his punishments." 

"Is that you or your addiction talking?" Obi-Wan said, anger overriding any restraints on his impertinence. 

"It is both," Jinn hissed reaching once more to grip Obi-Wan's arm above the bandages, anger flashing in his eyes, but not madness, at least Obi-Wan did not think so. The result was the same as he was jerked out of the bed, almost falling, Qui-Gon still holding his arm. "Perhaps you should meet your new hero, your 'innocent' prisoner." 

Biting back a cry of pain, Obi-Wan stumbled trying to keep up as his master's long legs propelled them both across the floor and into the hall Teban, hurrying behind them. Cooler air hit Obi-Wan's bare skin and he shivered, then had to grip Qui-Gon's arm to remain upright as they took the stairs down ward. "Jobi! The cellar. Obi-Wan wants to meet Vree," Qui-Gon yelled and the giant emerged from the kitchen , startled and then grim-faced, glaring at Obi-Wan even as he hurried to open the door and set the lights. 

Jobi preceded them, turning past the stores along the wall to a rack set into the stone. He reached past a shelf of crockery and there was a low hum before the rack began sliding, revealing another doorway. Another hum as a trap in the floor slid back, narrow metal stairs leading into he darkness. Damp and mildew and the sickly sour scent of sewage rose from the pit. Qui-Gon ignored the scent, ignored Obi-Wan's muffled exclamation of pain as bare feet encountered the ridge surfaces of the metal steps. 

It was darker here still, Obi-Wan able to see nothing but shapes and shadows until Jobi struck a light. He swayed as Qui-Gon stopped, his master supporting him almost totally. The figure in the corner, naked as he and chained at wrists and ankles and throat, shifted, protecting his eyes from the sudden light and then blinking as he became accustomed to it. Once he had done so, he got to his feet, the chains allowing enough movement for him to pace the narrow width of the chamber, to reach the drain on one side from where the ripe smells of sewage rose. But there was air here, Obi-Wan noted idly, a draft across his cheek smelling sweeter. 

"You have a visitor, Vree," Qui-Gon said flatly. "Someone who has more care for your comfort than I." 

The face was familiar from his brief glance the night before, pale hair cropped shorter than his own, a build not unlike Obi-Wan's but more well fed, dark eyes that flashed angrily. The open cut long his face had stopped bleeding, dried blood still leaving stains on his chin and throat. 

"So you didn't kill him," Vree said, his voice low, not unpleasant save the mocking edge to it. He showed no fear of Qui-Gon or Jobi, only moved as one biding his time. It was an odd observation, Obi-Wan thought, feeling vaguely faint. Their rapid descent to this pit had reawakened pains in body and mind, whisperings muttering in the dark corners, like small ripples in a pool that had no seeable source. "So I should thank him? For interrupting the entertainment you had planned for me?" Vree said and made a courtly bow to Obi-Wan. "My thanks, boy. I'm sure you are far more suited to being Jinn's plaything than I could ever hope to be. I'd reward you more suitably but as you can see, my circumstances are somewhat -- restrained." He said indicating his chains. His gaze shifted to Qui-Gon. "Or perhaps you realized how bored I am and brought me a toy of my own. He seems recovered enough. Stamina -- a good thing to breed in slaves. And needed, eh, Jinn? Does he slake your hunger as well as the drug does?" 

Vree came forward to the extent of his chains, Jobi close by, but out of reach. "Drowns out the voices in your head, does he Master Jinn? Silences them under his screams. He screamed very prettily," Vree said, and Obi-Wan flinched without knowing why. There was something in Vree's voice, some undercurrent that crawled under his skin. Qui-Gon's fingers dug into his arm painfully and he was almost grateful for the distraction. Vree was far out of reach but Obi-Wan nevertheless had the feeling that Vree's hands were on him and not pleasantly. 

"Not as well as your blood would," Qui-Gon said, in pleasant voice. "Do you like your quarters, Vree? Jobi went to much trouble to make them comfortable for you." Jobi chuckled, still watching the chained man, the grin on his face one of pure glee. 

Vree cast the giant a look of pure frustration. "They are adequate. Not what I am used too of course, but one makes do. Company would be better and hospitable," Vree said and there was a whisper of feeling against Obi-Wan's skin again and he pulled back, startled. Vree chuckled. "Very responsive, that one, Jinn," Vree said with approval and Qui-Gon glanced down at Obi-Wan, taking in the wide-eyed gaze and the trembling that had nothing to do with the cold. 

The mutterings in Obi-Wan's head grew more insistent. Qui-Gon had eased his grip. He could break free, run. He knew the idea was absurd but the urge was there still. If he ran, Jinn would catch him, Jobi would be distracted. He tensed, looking at the floor, breath coming in short, shallow pants. 

**_//Run, boy. I'll get us both free,//_** in his mind as clear as if Vree had spoken. A look and the handsome face was still smiling with pleasant coldness at Jinn, fingers wrapped around the chain...a link weakened in the long hours since his capture. The trap was open...they could escape if only Vree had time to make his move. 

**_//NOW!!//_** The command ripped through his mind, compulsion hard on its heels and Obi-Wan jerked away, out of Qui-Gon's grip, Jobi as distracted as his master. 

But hard on the heels of that command was something else, a glimpse, a movement/feeling of grey black oiliness, reaching for him, twisting around him, filling his mind and senses. The command itself still seared through him but he could do nothing more than try to escape, not Qui-Gon, but the thing masquerading beneath Dathan Vree's face. 

Jobi swore loudly as the chains snapped, forced to protect his face and body as Vree swung the length of metal. 

**_//KILL JINN!//_** Again that command wrenched through Obi-Wan, Qui-Gon already moving towards Vree, flanking him to give Jobi a chance to subdue the prisoner. 

Kill Jinn...it was what he had thought ...wanted...but still the voice came with more of the completely alien feel to it, slipping through the patterns of his mind as if seeking to root there. It was not the abhorrence at the thought that made him thrust it away, nor fear of punishment for a slave who kills his master -- Obi-Wan was so far past those fears, he could barely think at all.  Jinn was human, and what he had done...human as well.  This..this was wrong ... foul , cruel. 

Inhuman. 

"No!" Physically, mentally, vocally:  with every ounce of strength he had, he rejected Vree. His thoughts, his feel, his very presence -- like a mental shove, or the breaking of ice, or a burst of hot white fire  -- whatever it was the tendrils of oil and filth fled him...recoiled, drew back. 

Obi-Wan was free of him. 

Only the barest corner of his mind acknowledged that Vree was startled, surprised by his reaction. Obi-Wan could not say how or when he had learned to do such a thing. Body and mind seemed to cave at once, but with the freeing of his mind came an outrush of anger such as he had never known. 

It was a melee, or chaos...it was unexpected to say the very least. There was a warning shouted to someone, for someone, Obi-Wan lost track of the specifics of it, only felt the firm flesh under his hands, the whip of a chain across his back, felt huge hands grip him and saw the blaze of Vree's eyes, barely tinged by triumph -- and felt pain that was not his own rip across his belly. 

Pain enough to make him release his hold on Vree's throat, distraction enough for Jobi to resecure Vree and then silence him with a blow that might have killed the prisoner had Jobi been one iota less skilled. 

Pain enough to bring his sense into focus to see Qui-Gon struggling with Teban on the stairs, Jinn's dark clothes darker still with blood and Teban with nothing of sanity in his face at all. He was an old man, fragile and frail and yet he fought with Jinn as Obi_Wan might have, or Jobi. 

And it was Jobi's hand that finally pulled the old slave from his murderous intent. Jobi's hand that snapped the thin, scarred neck when Teban turned on him with the narrow, star bright blade. 

Whatever regret Jobi might have felt was lost under his attention to Qui-Gon. He ripped his own tunic off, the pale color of it soon stained dark and red as he pressed it to the wound that had opened Qui-Gon's torso from nipple to navel. 

Obi-Wan was left where he had fallen as Jobi lifted his master and called to Iska, ignoring the unconscious prisoner, Teban's lifeless body and Obi-Wan. He secured the door, shutting out what little light there was. 

Obi-Wan would have called out had he the throat for it, but his throat was raw once more and no more than a harsh whimper escaped. His mind felt as raw and open as his throat, the pain in his gut had not left when Qui-Gon did -- for all he knew he might well be bleeding to death as well.  Then, quite suddenly, it didn't matter anymore and he slipped away into a deeper darkness, familiar and empty, but this time, welcome. 

* * *

" ** _up, boy_**!" (" _up, boy_!") The words made no sense to him, but the urgency did. The urgency in the voice, in the tugging on his arm and shoulder.  " ** _quick, before he wakes again_**." (" _Quick, before he wakes, again._ ") 

Before who woke again? Body and mind struggled to move as one.  Before Vree woke again, he realized and the person tugging on him was Iska. There was light enough now to see her face, to read the tattoos there and the fierceness in the pale eyes. She showed surprising strength, hauling him to his feet, then cursing in the gibberish that was her language when she heard a groan behind her. 

" ** _stay down, you dog of a Sith. ware the painted paths you wal!_** " ( _Stay down you dog of a Sith. 'Ware the painted paths you walk!_ ") She spat on the ground behind them then dragged the toe of her crippled foot in the dirt to form a line. 

Leaning heavily on her bowed shoulder, Obi-Wan made the steps, almost falling again when Iska had to rob him of her support to close the heavy trap door.  He had not understood her words, not the sounds, but he knew what she had said, the warning she had laid between Vree and themselves. 

The second set of stairs was almost his undoing and Iska left him when he fell, muttering to herself as she continued her ascent. There were voices overhead, Jobi's deep grumbling like a thunder. Obi-Wan felt sick, nauseated, but laying still seemed to help -- did help until he felt Jobi's hands on him once more, roughly. The jostling and rough handling broke through his restraint but the giant seemed to neither care nor notice when what little was in Obi-Wan's stomach fought its way out of him. 

More scolding from Iska and Jobi handled him somewhat more gently, laying him down on a pallet on the floor near Jinn's bed, his master laying still and pale on the padding Obi-Wan had occupied until recently. A blanket to warm him reminded him of the chill on his skin he had forgotten and then Iska was there again, pressing a cup to his lips. It smelled foul, tasted bitter, but he swallowed, gagged, and swallowed again. 

The nausea eased and Iska patted his head, a smile of sorts twisting the tattoos on her face as she muttered again. She left him and Obi-Wan tracked her movements to where she  joined Jobi at the master's bedside, scolding and ranting at the larger slave as he fetched and carried, disappearing and reappearing a  dozen times as Iska worked. 

It seemed odd to Obi-Wan that Iska should be doing the ordering -- even more odd because he could understand her not at all, save he did. Not the words but the intent, glimpses in his mind of certain herbs and potions from the store room that Jobi fetched, hot water and bandages. He half thought himself dreaming when Jobi left once more and he looked to see the skin of Qui-Gon's chest glowing beneath Iska's hands. He blinked again and the glow was gone. In fact, Iska was sitting in a chair near the bed, sipping something hot and aromatic. 

She caught him looking and moved, pouring another cup from the pitcher next to the bed and limping to his side and kneeling awkwardly to hold his head and make him drink. Not bitter, but sweet and rich. Almost too much so.  " _ **drink this, boy. this is force shock you feel. quite a trick for an untrained mind** "  (Drink this, boy. This is force shock you feel. Quite a trick for an untrained mind.)_

It went down far easier, and shortly afterward he felt a kind of comforting numbness envelop his senses. Iska patted his shoulder awkwardly and struggled to her feet as Jobi returned. He glared at Obi-Wan and Iska glared at Jobi, all the while gibbering at him and pointing at Obi-Wan. Whether he understood her words or not, he certainly understood the gnarled finger jabbed at Obi-Wan then at the bed. 

Jobi gave a grunt and finally shrugged, leaning down to lift Obi-Wan from his pallet and move him into the bed next to Jinn. "I have to take care of Teban's body and fetch medicines for Iska to use," he said gruffly. "You mind Iska." 

Teban. Even with the fuzziness surrounding his mind, Obi-Wan remembered. Jobi had killed the older slave --  to keep him from killing Jinn. "Vree..." he said, trying to ignore the darkened gaze of Jobi's eyes. "It was Vree...ordering...in my head -- to Kill...Kill Jinn," Obi-Wan muttered. There was more but Iska's potion was working its way through him, stilling his mind. But Jobi had to know how dangerous their prisoner was. 

"You stay away from Vree," Jobi hissed at him, gripping his upper arm painfully. "And you pray to whatever gods you have that the master doesn't die -- because if he does, it'll be the auction block for you, slave," he threatened and released Obi-Wan, striding from the room angrily. 

Iska settled in a chair near the bed, bathing Qui-Gon's pale face with water laced with aromatic herbs. She spoke to Obi-Wan again but this time he didn't understand  -- or maybe she wasn't speaking to him. He fell into a troubled sleep with Iska's mutterings still in his ear. 


	4. Thief 4: Festival of Mother night

Mace set up the portable projection unit in the main room of the guest house. The low wooden table in the center of the room made a good stand for the projector, and he could sit on the soft rugs on the floor and be in range.  As soon as he could, he checked that both projector and receiver were working, and then he made his initial arrival report. 

Through the projection interface, Mace watched the faces of the council members as he described what he'd felt when he arrived. Yoda's ears twitched occasionally, and the rest of the council seemed just as intently focused. It was hard to get a good reading on how the news was being received; the projection equipment wasn't strong enough to transmit force-vibrations, and he usually relied on them to tell him what was going on. 

But even as he got to the end of his story, he couldn't miss the cold, hard expressions on most of the other members' faces. 

"We must investigate this," said Master Ki-Adi-Mundi. "Such a variation in the force is not to be taken lightly." 

"I agree," hissed Eeth Koth, his hand abruptly slicing the air. "Perhaps another team is in order?" 

"That ... rash," cut in Sasee Tinn, his low, rumbling voice momentarily dropping out of projection range. "The divergence...not new. There will be...time to investigate after the initial petition is..." 

"But should it be accepted before the divergence is explained? What if it is a virus of some sort--" 

The projection wavered, and faded. Mace sat forward and adjusted the settings, boosting the power, and the projection stabilized. "I am having some trouble with the technology here, Masters." His hands flitted across the board, trying to adjust the parameters so that Tinn's voice did not drop out. "There appears to be some sort of interference." 

Yoda closed his eyes and his ears flickered before he opened them again. "Strong shields I sense, Master Windu, but no more. Take care--" 

The projector cut out, and Mace was unable to turn it back on.  
  

> > * * *

  
It was festival night. Somewhere in the depths of Obi-Wan's mind, he knew that. Or perhaps it was the faint music carried on the night breezes. Subtle scents wafted over the walls separating one section of the city from another, voices and bells intermingling alternately soothed him or brought him near to waking. 

He should be waking, he thought in a moment so close to consciousness, it almost counted. But a touch and a word he didn't recognize sent him back down again. Vaguely he was aware he was in his master's bed, that Jinn was hurt, that Iska was still wafting herbs over them both, her mumbled words mingling with the sound of music and the bells. 

There was movement around Obi-Wan and voices, but he made no effort to pay attention to any of it. Something warm and cushioning surrounded his thoughts, his body, his senses. All of it. The only distraction was a shadow that prowled around the edges of his perceptions. But it was prowling only -- it could not get in. He was safe. 

He knew this place well, this cocoon of safety. He had discovered it, or places similar to it, as a child when confusion or half-formed memories threatened. What was outside could not touch him here, save that he brought it in with him, and that he rarely did. 

Save now, as he drifted, there was something just beyond -- not the shadow, but something else. Something like longing, or pain that wasn't his own. He had sensed it before, beneath his own pain, and just recently. Something familiar but not known. 

Something else seeking safety. Silence, The cessation of the pain it carried with it. 

More recent, painful memories dug at him, making him cautious but he was curious, drawn to this presence that was so like his own but so terribly warped -- as warped in spirit as Iska was warped in body. 

> _...the painted paths are dangerous, boy -- they beguile and  
>  cover the chasms beneath -- the twisted path is more trying, but less dangerous,  
>  longer but the destination is the same... one cannot walk the twisted paths  
>  alone...need not...there is always a guide...._

That voice had never followed him so deeply before. Now and then it had  
whispered to him...the voice of his mother or his father he always thought,  
although he remembered neither.

But was he guide or follower? 

_...laughter brushed his senses, both mocking and teasing...not cruel._

And that other, familiar, presence rushed along the path opened, hesitating and hovering before him, around him. Like trying to see the edge-lights of his vision, he twisted trying to catch a glimpse of the presence, until he wearied and went still again... 

And it danced closer, as if drawn. 

He went still within himself and felt the presence brush alongside his mind, not speaking yes, just testing, then away again to observe. 

"You have no fear?" 

> **_Not here..._ **

"I am not of you..."

> **_I have no idea what you are of, but no. I have no fear  
>  of you._ **

Closer still and cautiously.

"This is a dream?" 

> **_It may be...I...I do not know what this is, or where  
>  here is...but..._ **

Like a caress across his cheek the presence came, so gently and he could  
not help but turn into that caress.

"You do not know me..." 

Silent agreement was all Obi-Wan could offer and something settled inside the other... 

> **_I should know you...but you are only familiar...similar  
>  to something, someone else, I know, but not..._ **

"But not..." There was wonder in that acknowledgement.

And curiosity returned as well, seeking and probing around the edges of the space, but always returning to Obi-Wan. Until the presence settled close and turned that curiosity on Obi-Wan. 

"If I dream...then..." 

Again came the touch that was not a touch. Obi-Wan let it slide over him like slowly falling water, warm and clean, pure as thought. There could be no deceit here. 

"Can there not -- even of yourself..." 

> **_No..._ **

There was only what and who he was and the touch changed, gradually, drifting  
across him as if skin on skin, rather than thought on thought. More real  
and yet not so, the feeling of a touch on his face, tracing his brow, along  
the ridge of his nose, to his jaw and across his lips. Exploring, learning...teaching,  
too.

Translating what was dream into something more tangible. 

"You trust so easily..." 

> **_No...only here. There is nothing that can reside here  
>  that I cannot trust...I don't know why it is so, but it is._ **

"And so you trust easily..." there was laughter again, but different, deeper,  
more amused and less teasing, but sorrowed too, as if the laughter could  
easily turn to sobs of despair.

Obi-Wan came here to heal. To regain strength. Sometimes only in his dreams, sometimes when other things clawed at him, threatened him... 

"It's a wonder you ever leave..." The touch came again and Obi-Wan sought it, holding it bright and clear in his mind. So unlike other touches he knew, had shied from, evaded, suffered...fought off. "But not this touch..." wonder again and sorrow. 

> **_I don't know why...._ **

"Don't you? Once I knew as well." This one was more sure, more deliberate,  
equally as pleasing welcome, and accompanied by scents Obi-Wan did not  
recognize but somehow knew. The dry, dusty fresh scent of newly cut grasses,  
damp greens and turned earth. Water that had sound and substance, not still  
and treated from the wells, running along ancient pipes. Warmth that came  
from the suns above and breezes that carried only those scents of growing  
things rather than the stale and metallic scents of the city.

What could he see? It blurred and shifted, his sight here so much less than his sight beyond. 

> > _...a failing, boy...a lack of training...it might drive you  
>  mad, what you see beyond...seen here, within yourself...it has driven many  
>  mad...shown them the painted paths...shield your sight, boy, and find your  
>  path...._

**  
_I cannot see so you must show me._   
**  
"If I wanted to...if I could but go back..."

> **_You can....here. that path is not straight, it twists  
>  and turns back on itself, diverges and runs in circles...you can go back._ **

Approval ran behind him and along side him like a favorite hunt-pet, gnarled  
and nobby legs still stretched out to run.

> > > > _...i had begun to give up hope, that that this mount wold be  
>  ridden yet by darkness, but you have opened the stable door..._

It made no sense to Obi-Wan but he did not worry the thought, only followed  
where his companion led him. A dream and not so â the scents and sounds  
of open fields greeted him, shifting greens and browns that he felt rather  
than saw, the rustling of untainted winds through high grasses.

"I never forgot this â as much as I tried." 

> **_Why would you want to? Why forget?_ **

"It was better. I betrayed this, betrayed the hands that raised me. Betrayed  
myself."

There was such self-loathing in those words, calmly sent and cold, empty â that same sense of longing returning again. 

> **_Why did you leave?_ **

"That came...war and the darkness it brought, hidden, beneath its righteous  
causes."

Harsh and cold and soulless â like something else he knew. A shadow of black and red, tearing into the very earth until it screamed and he shrank back, seeking out comfort, understanding. The presence beside him, for all that it was chill now too, was not entirely empty, only bereft in parts â parts taken or lost along the travails of a distant path. And yet, even so Obi-Wan felt the bulwark of strength there, the warmth so carefully hoarded below the surface, parceled out sparingly â yet offered. He sought that, knowing he would not be denied and still surprised when he was not. 

"Have you come like a thief to steal what I have left?" There was no anger, only a weariness. 

Denial came wordlessly, the need to share, to offer and to take. To increase what was between two. The startled surprise made him laugh. 

> **_It's simple. One and one equals two, not half of what  
>  was before._ **

Obi-Wan teased, playful here as he was serious beyond his hidden half,  
his secret. His amusement was infectious, the laughter driving back the  
shadows of red and black into the dungeons of forgetfulness and Obi-Wan  
was warmed and crept closer, able to see.

A blade burning bright, the edge dulled from misuse, the hilt encrusted with dirt and gore and rusted from lack of care, but strong nonetheless. 

> > > > _...the blade is yours to protect, boy -- to keep sharp...every  
>  blade must have sheath, every sword a shield..._

It made no more sense than anything else but the urge to polish that blade  
and care for it was there. He had tried before, he thought, and been cut,  
wounded, frightened by how it could be wielded, but it was from lack of  
use â the dulled blade more dangerous than a sharp one, a clumsy wielding  
more dangerous than a clean parry. The grip was loose and weak and he started  
there, wiping away the grime to get to the intricate detail below. The  
sword let him, silver bright eyes watching him, but not interfering.

"What are you doing?" 

> **_What needs doing..._ **

There were no more questions, only a sense of wonder and confusion, a twisting  
of the senses as the blade shifted under his hands, presenting worn spots  
and places where the tarnishing ran so deep it was painful. And for each  
touch on the hilt one was offered back, soothing the bruised areas, the  
old cuts, reaching deep inside him.

Like a dance...wonderful and rhythmic, pleasant and exhilarating...intimate in ways he had not known before... 

He could remain like this forever. There was no sense of strain or of work, only the pleasure of purpose, of revealing what was hidden, restoring what had been lost. He molded himself around the strength of the blade, making its patterns part of him, delighting in the craftsmanship, in the slide of the blade along his skin -- though it did not cut, the coolness of the bright-metal sheen -- though it did not chill him, fingers tracing the delicate design... 

And finding a flaw, deep set and rough, a gouging that had left a deep and weakening scar in the blade near the hilt. 

It needed to be filled and smoothed. If it could not be repaired the blade would ever be weak. He had no tools, no forge to repair it with, even had he the skill. His fingers traced over the flaw again and again, feeling its roughness, noting how it would continue to spread... 

And drew back, frustrated... 

"There is no...healing it," his companion murmured. "It is too old...there is no cure...no way to patch it." 

> > > > _...so the painted paths would have you believe...they beguile,  
>  boy...remove the thorn and the wound will heal...be shield..._

He could cover it, keep it from worsening by constant care. But it would  
only be surface, the flaw was below and deeper. Without thinking why or  
how, he slipped within, searching for the cause...

He screamed as the shadows of red and black rose up to engulf him.... 

> > * * *

The slight breeze through the windows carried a hint of moisture, but withheld  
the promise of rain. Mace watched the courtyard, his mind tracing the Force  
patterns, sensing a disturbance, but unable to determine the origin of  
the feeling.  The planet's odd resonance masked everything, making  
it difficult to use even the most basic meditative tools, and there wasn't  
enough time for some more elaborate method. They were to meet with Palpatine  
soon to discuss the transmitter problems; with the projector gone, they  
were at the mercy of slower forms of communication. Mace fretted over what  
that could mean.

He wasn't the only one disturbed by the situation, though. Jana, his apprentice, was a strong Force-sensitive, but had never been at ease in calling the Force to her. She preferred to rely on the mechanics of science and her skill at arms, rather than using the Force. This planet was a frustration to her because everything simply required more concentration than she felt it ought, and spent much of the day exhausted from simply keeping her shields intact. 

He caught Jana out of the corner of his eye, laying on the floor, her head bent over a book of local myths and legends. He could feel the confusion rolling off of her as she stared at the page. 

"Jana, shields," he reminded her. 

"Sorry, Master." She looked up at him, and he felt her confusion recede as her shields were strengthened; she rubbed her temples with the effort, and her shields stabilized at more than her usual strength. 

"Headache?" 

She nodded. "I feel like I'm working in tar on this planet. Nothing reacts with the strength and speed I want." 

Her tone was almost a whine, and Mace looked sharply at her. 

Jana took a deep breath and let it out. Mace sat on the floor next to her and held out his hands. "Let me help." 

She closed her eyes and nodded. "Yes, Master. Please." 

She hadn't needed for him to help her shield for several years now, and it took him a moment to synch his energy with hers, to lend her the power she needed to keep the shield stable without hurting herself. 

He frowned as he pulled his hands away from her temples, not really hearing her sigh of relief. Jana was right. The Force around her was different in some way, darker, more demanding. A product of her youth? he wondered. A side effect of the planet's disturbance? 

Or perhaps, something new. The thought was troubling. 

"What are you reading?" he asked, pulling the nearest book to him, then glancing around the floor. She had several laid out, most of them in the common dialect, but a few seemed to be in the local tongue. 

"You wanted to know the history of the festival, my Master." She shrugged. "I wanted to give a thorough report." 

He stood and brushed himself off, then folded his arms into his robes. "And what do you have to report, Padawan?" 

She stood up and threw her braid over her shoulder, transitioning to a more formal stance.  "That the current festival is used to mark the end of the last series of major wars on the planet, the Unification Wars.  The festival has only been held on its current date for the last twenty years.  Prior to that, the festival changed with the cycle of the moons and the seasons." 

"What was the purpose of the festival?" 

"Master, I do not know." 

Mace blinked at her.  "Excuse me?" 

Jana shrugged, relaxing out of her formal pose.  "It's all contradictory.  Mentions of black riders, raiders I assume, who would come into a village and choose a new horse. Then there's some poetry about swords, shields, and honor -- and I can't see how it relates to a harvest or fertility festival at all." 

Clapping her on the shoulder, Mace found himself laughing at her determination to solve the puzzle given to her.  "You will, Jana, I'm sure.  Come, it is time too meet with the governor.  Perhaps he will have insight on this festival for you."  
 


	5. Thief 5: Cave of Night

The clouds gathered at the edge of the field, a curtain of darkness draping itself over mountains and lake, creeping along the ground, swallowing everything it touched. No light leaked out of mass, no sound save the skittering and gnawing of animalistic fear. Qui-Gon could see them clearly, just as he had the last dozen rights, just as he had the first night it had happened. 

The cloud would sweep over the field soon, and the riders would come. Take him, his land, his parents, destroying it all and leaving him barely alive with the remnants of Iska's camp. 

He gripped his shovel, bracing himself for it, the way he did every night, his fourteen-year-old body soon to be stripped of clothing and skin, his face ground into rock as the raiders came for him. He felt himself sweating, the noise louder now, the whispers getting their first foothold in his mind, teasing and tormenting him with what would be done-- 

Light brushed him then, different from anything that had happened before, chilling him. It beckoned to him, a sphere of golden light, pulsing brightly, keeping the raiders at bay. 

"Who are you?" he asked, sensing something within the light, but he heard no response. He prowled around the bubble of light, and the darkness around him faded. The images, the memories of what-had-been seemed distant. Only the light, and the shadowy figure inside, remained. 

He reached out to touch it, pulling his hand back at the sight of the shadow he left on the bubble of light. No, whatever was in there was safe, he thought. Safe and at peace, in a way he could never be. 

Oh, how he wanted that safety, that silence. But he knew it was not to be. 

He turned away from the light and looked back again at his memories, and the darkness that lay before him...and the pain. 

He thought he heard laughter from inside the bubble. Shocked, he twisted back to it and placed his hands on that sphere, feeling the depth of warmth and love that resided there. "You have no fear?" he asked softly, pressing his cheek against the brightness, ignoring the way it darkened where he touched it. 

Not here... 

The being of light spoke to him, mind-to-mind, as if it had no need for physical form. Qui-Gon could not imagine that ever being true. He looked at his arms, at the scars left from wars and drugs, and wished he might some day be free of this pain, the way this light-being was. "I am not of you..." 

_I have no idea what you are of, but no. I have no fear of you._

The bubble pulsed under his hands and cheek, for an instant enveloping him in its warmth before vanishing again. He almost cried at the loss. "This is a dream?" 

_It may be...I...I do not know what this is, or where here is...but...._

The mind-voice drifted off. Qui-Gon half-hoped he'd died, so that this feeling would not end. Love and warmth and acceptance; he'd felt none of that since he was a child, since before the riders came. 

The world around him pulsed dark, and Qui-Gon felt fear. What if the riders found them here, found this -- being of light. Took him, tainted him, rode him, just as Qui-Gon had been ridden. 

He could not allow that. He reached though the bubble, feeling the darkness enter with him, yet he could not stop. He reached out to touch the other, brushing his hand over what might have been a cheek, and felt the being turn into the caress. 

The light shifted and changed, taking on form and substance. Obi-Wan? Qui-Gon wondered briefly, before the name vanished from his mind. 

The boy stood looking at him, his eyes filled with curiosity and wonder, and utterly lacking in recognition. Qui-Gon's heart sank. "You do not know me...." 

_I should know you...but you are only familiar...similar to something, someone else, I know, but not...._

"But not..." Qui-Gon could only agree. He settled as close as he dared to the light-being, wanting to neither drown it in his shadow, nor be burned by its light in return. Yet he could not settle, and he moved in closer and closer still, till their thighs were almost touching. 

The heat was unbearable, burning him, searing his skin the way the poison Iska made for him burned in his veins. But this time the sensation left him feeling alive and light, as if something he carried within him were being burned away, revealing his true form. "If I dream...then...." 

He touched the being again, stroking down the soft cheek, wishing there could be more. "Can there not -- even of yourself...." 

_No...._

Qui-Gon could not stop, his gentle touches growing more demanding, more sensual. "You trust so easily...." 

_No...only here. There is nothing that can reside here that I cannot trust...I don't know why it is so, but it is._

"And so you trust easily...." Qui-Gon laughed bitterly and turned away. He had no business being here; he needed to leave. He belonged in the darkness, with the riders, out on the path to self-destruction and death. Already, he'd stayed too long. He could feel the darkness closing in on this place of peace. 

"It's a wonder you ever leave..." Qui-Gon brushed his hands one last time against the other, savoring the warmth. And the being turned into his touch, savoring it. 

Qui-Gon wanted to push him away, but he could not. Anything, any gift at all, he had to keep it. Trust others, he wanted to say, but not me. "But not this touch...." 

_I don't know why...._

"Don't you?" Qui-Gon said bitterly. "Once I knew, as well." Once I, too, knew how to trust. 

His memories finally pushed him to leave the barrier of light that the boy had somehow erected, and Qui-Gon found himself back in his field once again, waiting for the raiders to arrive. He sensed the light-being next to him, but he couldn't see him anymore; he was no longer a part of that bubble of safety. He was re-living his past. 

Really, it was better this way. Better to let himself be taken and used again than to let the riders have the boy. He only hoped that when they arrived, that the creature of light would have sense enough to leave. "I never forgot this -- as much as I tried." 

_Why would you want to? Why forget?_

"It was better. I betrayed this, betrayed the hands that raised me. Betrayed myself." He didn't even try to cover his hatred of himself and what he had done. The boy should stay here. The riders were coming. Qui-Gon could smell them, like the stench of an open sewer on a summer's day. 

_Why did you leave?_

"That came...war and the darkness it brought, hidden, beneath its righteous causes." He bit off the words, wanting to yell 'Run! Save yourself.' But he was too much of a coward to want to stay alone. He stared away from the light, his eyes searching the darkness, looking for the signs. He could feel the earth tremble under his feet; the wind caught at his hair. Soon, the rain would come, and the lightning. 

And in the midst of the storm, the raiders. The ones that could not die. 

He gripped his shovel like a sword, and wished he had one. More than that, he wished for a shield, some way to protect himself from what would come. But this body -- his fourteen year old form -- had not learned about swords yet. All he knew at this moment was the grass and planting and harvest; the sweetness of water on a hot day, the wonder of fresh baked bread. He would learn those other skills under a different tutor, one not as kind as the seasons and the earth. 

He felt the light-being next to him again, moving outside of its shelter. "Have you come like a thief to steal what I have left?" 

_It's simple. One and one equals two, not half of what was before._

It made no sense, and yet it felt right. Qui-Gon smiled, his eyes fixed on the horizon and the approaching storm. 

Almost, it seemed fainter now, with the light-being next to him. Almost he could forget his fate. But still, he watched, waited, knowing that at any moment the storm would break. 

Something touched him, and he shivered. Another stroke, and Qui-Gon groaned, his knees trembling and weak. A third touch, and he collapsed on the ground, shovel falling from his hands, leaving him nothing to protect himself with. 

The being's grey eyes stared gently down at him, compassion mixed with pain. 

"What are you doing?" Qui-Gon gasped out, his nerves tingling from the touch, a mixture of pleasure and pain. 

_What needs doing...._

He twisted and turned, alternately trying to crawl away from that touch and press himself into it. It felt like his soul was being torn from his body, the strands of it carded and re-woven again, partially clean. He screamed, and he screamed again as the pain shot through him; he groaned deeply as the pieces were returned and stroked into place. 

The pain disappeared, and the touches became soothing; Qui-Gon pressed back into them like a dog at his master's caress, knowing that whatever the light-being wanted, he would do. 

And then he began to touch back. Not a dog, no, coming and going at his master's call, but an equal, desiring and desired, complete. The touches became a dance, intimate, wonderful, and exhilarating, destroying his focus, leaving him a heaving mass of sensation, opening up every part of him 

Then the movement stopped, and Qui-Gon could feel the darkness within him screaming, knowing it was discovered. 

Qui-Gon opened his eyes, feeling the horror in the other being, and rolled away from him on the ground, moving to quickly stand and find his shovel-- 

He was too late. The storm broke; the raiders amassed around them, and he could hear the light-being scream. The arms that grabbed at him and tore his clothing from him were an old horror, but the scream of the boy echoed in his mind. 

Run, please boy, run. 

* * *

Mace stood on the reviewing stand, Jana at his side, watching the public celebration of Mother Night. He was still uncomfortable after his discussion with Palpatine; he wasn't used to hearing that there was no one capable of repairing his transmitter. Surely this planet had similar technology? Or was that why they were joining the Republic? 

He felt Jana waver next to him and carefully sent a thread of Force her way, giving her energy. She caught it, and almost instantly, he could feel her presence solidify next to him. She hadn't slept well since they'd arrived, and it seemed like a great weight had settled about her, draining her. He had a feeling he'd be doing a lot more energy sharing as long as they were on this planet. 

A breeze filtered through the columns and rows of the celebrants, and the streamers around the platform snapped and danced around them, one of them breaking free at one end. Startled, Mace glanced at the edge of the review stand and caught sight of something he hadn't expected: one of the workers attempting to capture and re-secure the streamer was wearing a numbered collar. 

"Is something wrong, Master Windu?" Palpatines's voice pulled him away from his thoughts. 

"That boy," Mace nodded to the workers at the edge of the review stand, "the one with the collar. I didn't think you kept slaves here." 

"Slaves?" Palpatine glanced at the boy as well. "Oh, no, he's not a slave. He's a contract worker, indebted to the state. The collar is merely a method of identification, a way of making sure that all work is tracked so that their debt can be repaid." He smiled fatuously and waved his hand, directing Mace's attention toward the celebrants again. "It isn't worth thinking about." 

The Force rippled around them as Mace turned backed to the celebration. He shuddered briefly and glanced at the Governor, but Palpatine was no longer looking at him, his attention captured by the black and red clad dancers. Mace looked over at Jana, who nodded; she'd felt it too. Whether someone here was a Force user or whether it was related to the odd nature of the Force on this planet, Mace wasn't sure, but something was not quite right. 

After the celebration tonight, he and Jana would do some investigating on their own. There would be little sleep for either of them. 

* * *

The pain was sharp, but brief, and Obi-Wan gasped in reaction. Then it came again, and he jerked away â the third blow snapped his eyes open, and he found himself staring into Iska's scarred face, her eyes as black as night, and her lips set thinly. Seeing him awake, she gave him a glimpse of her chipped teeth in what he supposed was a smile. She let go of his hair, and he fell back on the bed, for the first time realizing that not only did the skin on his left cheek sting from her slaps, but his scalp hurt and his body ached and he was covered in sweat. 

She returned a moment later and held another cup of the aromatic tea to his lips, then lay her hand across his chest, as if measuring his heartbeats. Whatever she found pleased her, and she gave a curt nod, motioning him to sit up and then get off the bed. 

It took some doing. He felt weak, drained, as if from a day's hard labor. Iska offered her hand, surprisingly strong and steady, to help him stand. He glanced at his master as she led him toward the bath. He hesitated, looking at the prone man on the bed, a frown furrowing his brow. There was something he was supposed to remember, should remember.... 

He suddenly found himself gasping for breath as if he had been running a race. His limbs felt weak, and he stumbled, darkness dancing before his eyes, a dull sound rising to blot out his hearing, the dull thud of hooves and the rising winds. 

Another sharp slap broke the spell he'd fallen into, and he looked up at Iska in fear and confusion. He'd fallen to his knees, and only her hand on his arm kept him from pitching forward. 

"What's happening to me?" he asked her. 

She shook her head and dragged him to his feet, propelling him toward the bath again. 

The floor was warmed, he realized, the entire chamber slightly on the humid side as she pushed him toward the large glazed tub set in the floor. It was nearly round and not particularly deep, a shallow, oversized bowl. Iska tugged at the light tunic he wore and he stripped it off and she pointed to a series of levers set in a wooden column. She showed him the lever for hot water and the lever for cool and the flat plug in the center of the basin that would allow water to collect, and the spigot overhead that would allow the water to fall. Not quite the sleek utilitarian sonics of the slave quarters. 

Then she left him, returning to the other room. 

He stood uncertainly for a long moment before stepping into the basin. Iska meant for him to bathe apparently and truth was he needed it: the smell of his own sweat was acid in his nostrils and his skin was streaked with smudged traces of dirt and blood from the cellar. That was enough to give him the shakes again â any sympathy he might have had for Qui-Gon's prisoner vanquished by a cold dose of fear and revulsion and he was doubly glad that it was Jobi and not himself sent to tend the monster below. 

In an effort to dispel his own reaction he turned on the water, adjusting it until it was warm enough, even in the humid atmosphere. Testing the temperature with his hands, he then supported himself on the pillar as he let the water run over his head and shoulders. He hissed a little in pain as the water washed over open wounds and scrapes, but the touch of it cleared his head finally and he was well able to take some pleasure in the idea of being clean. He let the water run out the drain with the worst of the dirt and grime, rubbing his skin and hair with some grainy feeling soap and then rinsing it off before blocking the drain and letting the basin fill. 

He had not yet settled into the warm water when Jobi appeared, carrying Jinn, the master stripped of his clothing as well. Behind him, Iska followed carrying a jar of something which she began pouring into the water. Dermaplast covered the wound on Jinn's belly, but it was discolored and bruised looking. The wound was not sealed entirely. 

Whatever Iska had added to the water gave it a vaguely citrusy-grassy scent, and she gave Obi-Wan cloth as Jobi eased his master into the basin. "You will bathe him," Jobi said, none too patiently or happily as he sat on the edge of the basin to support the unconscious man. He glared at Iska, obviously reluctant to turn Jinn's care over to Obi-Wan, but Iska merely clucked and mumbled at him. 

Obi-Wan had to go to his knees to be effective and he started hesitantly â not sure if it was fear of inflicting more harm or the fact that touching Jinn, even when the man was unconscious, brought up a mix of emotions that ranged from anger to confusion. With both Jobi and Iska watching him though, he complied. Refusal wasn't really a response he gave much thought to, the reality of the fact that Jinn owned him, that these two slaves had higher places in the household than he, and that Jobi might take a certain pleasure in disciplining him. 

Unconscious, however, Jinn was no threat and there was a certain lulling peacefulness to tending the silent figure, even with Jobi's scrutiny. It felt familiar, as if he had done it before, his own tension easing away almost more quickly than it had when he had bathed himself. Concentrating on only the areas he was bathing helped to separate him from the object of his attentions, able to admire in parts the man who, whole, frightened and angered him. Jinn had the hands of a musician or a craftsman â long fingered, broad palms, callused from work, mildly scared but strong and capable. For one of such a height, he was well proportioned, long limbed and as Obi-Wan had seen, graceful as a predator might be. But even at rest, that gracefulness was apparent. Here was a man who might actually be able to carry off the overdone court finery of the government offices. Jinn's face at rest, still bore traces of the tension he seemed to always wear: the lines around mouth and eyes. Without the compelling gaze, Jinn's face was more gentle than harsh, further softened by the well kept beard. It was like looking at a kinder mirror image to the man Obi-Wan had seen thus far. 

It wasn't until he heard Jobi speak gruffly, but softly and Obi-Wan blinked, that he realized the water had cooled. The wound in Jinn's stomach looked less bruised as Jobi lifted his master and wrapped him in the drying cloth Iska held out. She left another cloth on the side of the tub and followed Jobi out, leaving Obi-Wan to tend to himself. 

Rinsing off once more and releasing the water from the basin, Obi-Wan felt somewhat better but still confused. He seemed to be slipping away from his own sense of presence and he could not understand why. The distancing didn't frighten him for some reason, though, and as he dried himself, taking  in the rich scents Iska's bath salts had left lingering in the room, and wondered if it weren't those that left him feeling slightly drugged and fuzzy. 

She had left him no clothes and he emerged wrapped in the cloth, leaning against the doorway as Jobi and Iska managed to get a robe on their master and lay him back on the bed. Settled there, Iska sat beside Jinn and coaxed more of her potent tea past his lips. Jobi looked up and stared at Obi-Wan for a long moment before going to a chest and pulling out a plain tunic and tossing it to him. "Dress and come with me," he said and left the room. 

* * *

Light, his old enemy, nudged at his eyes, trying to get Qui-Gon to open them. He fought to keep them shut, to claw his way back to sleep, but his body protested his actions. He ached everywhere and his side burned where the knife had entered him. His bladder, too, made its needs known, and slowly, slowly, Qui-Gon acknowledged that he had to get up. 

He had to blink his eyes several times, the light too strong for him to adjust to right away. He frowned. Daylight already? He shifted his head to look for the window, and found it covered. Where was the light coming from then? 

He tried to sit up and realized several things: first, his wound would support his weight at the moment; second, he was clean and dressed in a fresh robe, something he had no memory of doing himself; third, his craving for laudnine was back, making his throat dry and his body shiver with need; and finally, the voices were gone. 

It was this last fact that frightened him the most. 

He lay quietly, searching for them, the dark shadows that clouded him mind; it was as if something had come through and torn them out. There were places that seemed like open sores to him, memories that if he tried to touch him, they burned with a cold, black fire. Instinctively, he knew that this was where the voices had come from, but he had no idea what had broken the connection, sealed it like a cauterized wound. 

His dream, he wondered, and the being of light...? Obi-Wan? 

Impossible, he told himself. A dream was a dream, nothing more. It had no capacity to hurt or to heal. It simply was. No, the changes came from Iska's potion, sealing off the path to his mind, the way Iska had promised it would At least he would no longer have to kill himself by taking it, as long as those seals held. 

He pushed the ideas from his mind and himself out of bed, and slowly, deliberately made his way to the bathroom. 

Iska was there, cleaning. She seemed startled to see him, and babbled in her language at him. She grabbed his arm, and Qui-Gon shook her off, almost falling as he did so. She snapped at him again, and this time Qui-Gon let her lend him support. She stood facing away from him, her arm around his chest taking some of his weight as he relieved himself, then she twisted around and helped him back out of the room and into bed. 

The sheets felt cool and smooth, settling around him like a soft cocoon. Iska clicked and fussed at him in that odd language of hers, but then, she always had. Even when she had found him after the raiders left him for dead, she'd taken care of him. It was only right he'd been able to return the favor years later, when he'd seen her in the slave pens. 

His mind was drifting, he realized. He was running a fever. Had the wound become infected? He twisted around to try and take his bandage off and see, but Iska slapped his hand. 

Qui-Gon laughed. She had no fear of him. "So is that the way of it, old mother? I'm not to touch anything until you give me leave? Or get up either, I suppose. We would all starve to death if it were left up to you." 

She snorted at him, and pulled the covers up to his neck; Qui-Gon pushed the down again as soon as Iska left the room, his own words echoing in his mind, as if trying to fill up the space left now that the voices no longer spoke to him. 

Without the voices, though, he felt like he had more control over his reactions, weak and feverish as he might be. He would not be pushed to extremes...or so he hoped. 

Where was Obi-Wan, anyway? Had he eaten? The boy would need to rest and recover from the beating he'd taken, along with everything else that had happened this past...these past few...how long had he been asleep anyway? 

Iska came in, carrying a tray with a pitcher of ice water on it, condensation running down its sides. She set it on the table next to his bed and poured him a glass, and tried to inch her arm under his back to help him sit up. 

Qui-Gon grunted, and let her, drinking the water slowly. As soon as he was done, he set the glass aside. "Obi-Wan?" 

"Jobi," she answered, as if that was enough. 

Perhaps it was, Qui-Gon thought as he felt sleep try to claim him. Jobi would take care of the boy and make sure he rested. Jobi could always be counted on to take care of every detail. 

* * *

Jobi took him to the kitchens and handed him a bucket and a brush and led him downstairs, jerking him forward by his tunic when Obi-Wan hesitated. "Don't worry, boy," he said. "I won't make you face the wolf again. Not that it would matter right now. He couldn't piss by himself," Jobi said with a toothy grin. He pointed to the cellar floor where dark stains lay like oil on the stone and wood. "Get that up. Once you've scrubbed there's sand to spread," he said pointing to a large stack of bags. 

Obi-Wan didn't hesitate further, nor question -- not even to ask Jobi what a wolf was. It was spatters of blood and other fluids, acrid and strong in the humidity of the cellar. Jobi left the door open, the low glows on the wall enough to let him see by. Blood from Teban, apparently, from the smears and the trail that led to the outer doors. 

But even with Jobi's reassurances, he tried to hurry, ignoring aches and tiredness and the gritty feel of sand under his knees. Clearing it all up and then covering the floor again. Superstitiously, he kept his eyes away from the hidden trap until he had no choice but to look as he spread sand there  to obscure it once more. Done, he sat on the stairs, wiping at his sweaty face with the edge of his tunic, then pressed his hands to his neck to rub the muscles there. He had slept and been fed, but what little energy he felt he had gained from his bath was fading now. 

Folding his arms on his knees he rested his head on them, meaning to only relax for a moment. He didn't want Jobi coming to hunt him down and cuff him for laziness. 

But his mind and body knew better what he needed than what he feared. Within moments he had slipped into a light doze, body relaxing to lean against the stone, mind drifting toward the spaces of familiar comfort, drifting back to sleep and pleasant dreams. 

Instead, he found darkness, familiar but not comfortable. He sought the place, the feeling that would let him rest. It eluded him, while something else tugged at his attention and his focus. He'd never had such difficulty before, resisting the pull of the dark; he'd never struggled to escape it. All thought of comfort escaped him; panic took root as he struggled to get free. Like a night terror or a waking nightmare, the harder he fought , the more enmeshed in the dark web he became; he was no longer sure if he were awake or asleep. The darkness tightened around him, crushing him, forcing its way into his mind, into the quiet places of his soul. It sought out his core, , those parts of himself he most wanted to keep safe and inviolate. It sought to destroy him. 

The darkness seemed to gain strength from his struggles, feeding on his anxiety, his fears. Weaving around him was the softest snicker of laughter, taking pleasure in his rising terror, at his inability to break free. 

He needed to wake and fought for it, like struggling up through heavy sands for the air. He could feel it, taste it, cried out when his skin was flayed by the rough texture, stripping his skin away, grating on his muscles wearing down his bones. The harder he fought, the more the grating darkness filled him and when he opened his mouth to scream, it swept in, choking him, robbing his strenght, immobilizing his body, overwhelming his thoughts until for one terrifying moment it seemed to be all there was and his innermost secrets places seemed ready to shatter under the force of it. 

Abruptly he surrendered, needing to give the darkness a victory so that it would press him no harder. He faltered, panic driving his thoughts and actions, the need to fight, to escape taking over all other thoughts for a long hollow moment. More fissures, weaking his last defenses and he forced himself to go still in mind and body. Like a lethal snake striking at it's prey, the darkness swept around him, inside him, finished filling all those spaces left unguarded and open to it, filling his thoughts, coloring his emotions, stealing the breath form his lungs and the feeling from his body. 

He was no longer asleep. 

Eyes that could neither close nor move stared at the low-ceilinged room, able to see only a few of the stout supports under the first story flooring. He could see the dusty webs of crawlers at the joists where his gaze fell, the shifting of dust across the filtered light of the glows. Even when his breath became short as he tried to gain enough oxygen for consciousness, his eyes would not close, fixed on the ceiling, his body sprawled awkwardly across the stairs. He could feel the edges of the steps digging into his left shoulder, his back and the top of his thighs through the thin tunic but could not move, held by a rigor that came more from within him than form external force. Like oil sloshing in a glass the darkness prowled his thoughts, his mind, but no longer tried to force itself into those tightly held places within him. Obi-Wan fought to turn its attention from his center, to keep the darkness from seeking what he guarded there as well. At least now he could think, even if he could not move. 

 The fear that pounded and screamed within him seemed to attract the darkness as well, feeding it. Had he breath to spare, he doubted his throat would be loosened enough to allow sound to escape. But he was screaming, if only in silence. 

He wanted unconsciousness to come and it seemed close, but not close enough. Whatever held him wanted him aware and afraid. It was succeeding at both. The claustrophobic panic had no outlet, no way to express itself, and no hope of rescue or relief. 

He could only wait, marshalling his fear like a shield, waiting to fight it until he had sufficient strength to break free, and the darkness gave him an opening. 

Even as his fear warred with rational thought, he thought he recognized the battle. The weaving oiliness was new to him, but familiar nonetheless. The struggle to breach his inner self felt older still, as if he had fought this battle before but not with this opponent. 

Memories rose up, haze clouded, vague. The world had looked much larger in size in his memory: looking up to see faces, reaching up for a cup, being lifted up and carried and the ground seeming so very far away. Shadows creeping in and a different kind of shadow, more like a veil being draped across his mind, his memories. 

He clutched at the images only to have them ripped away again as he saw shadows moving across the ceiling. Not the broad shadow patterns of shifting light, but thin streamers of darkness, moving without pattern, solidifying, stretching thin then thick, becoming physical. Coldness touch his skin, near his left ankle, wrapped around his flesh and crept upward. More at his wrists, then under his back, soaking through his tunic to brand his skin with ice, tightening around him. He craved the sharp cut of the stone steps in his flesh to this encircling cold. 

Still he could not move, nor shift his gaze, nor draw enough breath to scream as another binding of cold closed around his throat, pressing under his chin and tilting his head back. His field of vision shifted and he could see more shadow, creeping across the stone and wood, leaving oily dark trails where they slithered and shifted Solid now, they dripped from the ceiling like stalactites building in condensed time -- not in centuries, but in seconds. 

His mind gibbered without form, the word 'no' having lost all meaning. His screams were silent still, his core unguarded. There was only the briefest acknowledgement that what Jobi thought contained below had not been contained at all. This was the real enemy, and it was no longer bound by the body of the prisoner. It roamed free, free to seek a new host, to claim another to bend to its will, leaving behind the husk of a lifeform it had once called home. 

Vree was probably dead, and the parasite wanted Obi-Wan's form. 

The few shadows left on the ceiling hovered just above his face, so close he could no longer see the end of it, but he could feel it, the coldness like an ice breath against his mouth, in his nostrils. Wafting in was the vague scent of decay and age and the scent of the darkest corners of the world, never touched by light. There was a chattering of voices, whispers and murmurs, rough giggles and clickings filling his ears. Invisible feathers of ice crept up his legs, across his belly, along his cheek. 

For an endless moment it all went silent as the cold tightened, poised itself, seemed to coil and wait for some signal, listening.... 

His scream as he was pierced and entered, invaded and impaled, filled and fucked and gagged by the solid darkness of it, was neither silent nor of any use to him. It filled his mouth and his nose, punctured his brain through his ears and his eyes, filled his belly and torso through his ass and his cock. He was no longer frozen or paralyzed but every convulsive, incoherent instinctive struggle only caused the darkness to pulse and pump deeper within him. He felt his body spasm, tried to vomit, to pull it away, fingers clutching at the bands of ice only to gouge his own skin, tear at his tunic, claw at his ears and eyes until he was frozen again so as not to damage himself further. 

It was that touch of intelligence, of thought and feeling that broke him, that sent him screaming into those last, carefully horded bits of himself. 

The sounds driving him mad had not faltered, the voices, the chittering..still there until something cut through them. A Voice, a challenge, he no longer knew. The cold went brittle and sharp, returning the challenge but not releasing him. 

His havens were still there, stressed and cracked but there...and here too was the sword, its memory damaged, but bright and sharp still. He reached for it...called it too him, unable to wield it but needing it now... 

And it answered, not to him but to *that* Voice. Like a flash fire cutting across a frozen plain, it burned hot and fierce, severing the long reaching tendrils, leaving them cut from their source and they went soft then misty, then vanished like vapors from the mountains. 

It took a long time for the cold to leech from his insides.  Too long for him to wait for. He needed a different darkness with no dreams, no nightmares, no knowing and no light. 

His mind simply shut off.


	6. Thief 6: Dark Rider

Even through the haze of sleep, he felt it: tugging at his heart and mind. He brushed it away at first, used to the voices that called to him. In his sleep, he frowned and rolled on to his side, his brain starting to wake up. Something was different here. He felt the darkness press around him, but something else was there, something shielding him.... 

Then the shield collapsed. Startled, his eyes shot open and Iska came limping into the room, her face contorted and tight from the effort to move fast. He caught the word "boy" in her babbling; he was on the floor and moving before he even registered the knife in his hand. 

Iska grabbed his arm, slowing down enough to say one word clearly. "Rider." 

The chill that settled in him was worse than any winter freeze. He shook her off and stumbled down to the kitchen, his mind and his heart racing. He ignored the pain in his side, focusing instead on what had to be done. 

The oven was the first stop, and he grimaced as he pulled the still burning log from the hearth. Most considered him crazy for having a wood burning oven installed in the kitchens, but Iska would not cook on anything else. 

And it gave them all access to fire if ever the need arose. 

Knife in one hand, burning stick in the other, Qui-Gon carefully descended into the cellar. He didn't bother to call for Jobi, knowing that Iska would have gone for him first. The fact that she hadn't meant he'd have to look for a body later, but first he had to be certain that Obi-Wan was safe. 

<<<>>>

Jana kept pace with Mace as he slipped past the guards and back into the compound, leaving behind Hellesta's central district. They had not been able to do much recognizance -- the town was filled with celebrants, and nothing seemed to be on schedule. The most interesting things he'd seen were the tight security around the space port and the swords and knives the locals wore. 

Not blasters -- swords. No energy weapons anywhere. No wonder his communications system could not be fixed. Nascalli was much more primitive than he'd been led to expect. 

Mace took off his cloak and threw it over a lattice-backed chair, then sank into the cushions on the couch. Not even the guards at the governor's residence had energy weapons of any sort. And if there were projectile weapons, those were hidden as well. 

Jana stumbled over the chair he'd left out, and instantly, Mace was up and helping her with her cloak. He brushed her bangs out of her face and smiled down at her; she'd held up well tonight, despite being pawed at least twice. "You did well," he said, trying to put his emotions into words. "You are learning to be a true Jedi." 

"Thank you, Master," she said, her dark eyes showing both her tiredness and her determination. "But I am not sure what we learned." She yawned then, interrupting her conversation. 

"In the morning, we will discuss what you saw and what might be learned from that. But for tonight, I think you had best rest." He waved one hand in the direction of her room. "I will need to stay up a while. I need to check some references in the briefing materials." 

She looked sharply at him. "You've noticed something." 

"Perhaps. I need to check something before I know for certain, but I believe that we may have been brought here under false pretenses." 

"Master?" 

"In the morning, Jana," he said kindly. "Nothing will have changed by then." 

With a slow nod, she turned and walked carefully to her room; Mace watched, noting her hesitant steps, that she swayed slightly as she moved. He frowned, but said nothing, hoping that it was simply an indication of how tired she was, rather than something worse. 

<<<>>>

Obi-Wan screamed. 

Qui-Gon ignored the throbbing pain in his side and ran the rest of the way down into the cellar. He froze for an instant, the pulsing blackness that surrounded Obi-Wan pulling up all too familiar memories and horrors. He swallowed the bile that rose to his throat: there was no time. The rider was half way through his embrace. 

He focused on only what he needed to do, shutting out everything except the creature before him. Vaguely, under the blackish-grey gel, he could see Obi-Wan, his eyes wide, mouth open as if he had been frozen mid-scream. The rider oozed around the body, entombing it, letting itself be absorbed. 

Qui-Gon didn't think; he stuck the flame into the darkest part of the creature, where it covered Obi-Wan's chest. 

The covering thinned, but didn't vanish; it was at least partially attached. He stepped in with the knife then, and sliced at the ooze he'd just burned. With a chittering screech the elastic gel separated, and Qui-Gon could see Obi-Wan's flesh. 

He was bleeding. In his haste, Qui-Gon had cut him as well. 

Then the skin vanished again, under the grey gel that now crept into Obi-Wan's wound. 

He fell back a step and turned, sensing the tentacle reaching for him almost before it moved. He cut first this time, then thrust the flaming log at the wound; this time, he could hear the creature scream and smell the burning flesh. It smelled like war to him, like dirt and heat and iron all forged into one, and covered with the sickly-sweet scent of decay. 

He let the memories and the smell pass through him, his mind working to find the hole he needed to get at the thing. If only he knew if Obi-Wan were still alive; if only there were some way Obi-Wan could help him. If only there were some way to shield Obi-Wan as he attacked. 

His concentration fragmented. For an instant, he held an image from his dream in his mind, the golden circle that had made he feel safe. His distraction left the rider an opening, and Qui-Gon felt its tentacles grab his arm and twist itself around it-- 

The seals on the dark places in his mind were thrown open, and Qui-Gon could see into the creature's mind. Instead of overwhelming him, he knew these thoughts, these feelings; he'd dealt with it before. And beyond that darkness, he sensed something else; he sensed the brightness of Obi-Wan's mind. He pushed with his mind then, just as hard as he pushed with his body, going through the creature to show Obi-Wan what was needed, to remind him how to create the shield of light-- 

He was struck with the same power as the rider was when the shield snapped into place. Disoriented, the voices calling to him again, Qui-Gon did what he'd been taught to do and sliced and burned through the grey flesh, scraping his way down to Obi-Wan's skin. 

There was no blood this time, just the scent of death. But he wasn't strong enough to kill it, not yet anyway, and in despair Qui-Gon watched as the injured rider fled into the night. 

But at least Obi-wan was safe. 

Obi-Wan had stopped screaming -- and the silence was almost more chilling than the sounds that had been ripped from a throat that should have been raw and bleeding. Above him, on the stairs, he could hear Iska mumbling and chittering -- a rhythmic, repetitive sound. A prayer or a spell, he no longer knew or could tell which. It was all he could do to use the remnants of Obi-Wan's tunic to stop the bleeding along his chest. As if that would be enough. 

For the moment it would have to be. What strength he had was spent pressing cloth to wound and keeping his own consciousness intact enough until Iska or the fates themselves could send aid. All his concentration was there as well, lest the fear scrabbling in the back of his mind take hold and send him screaming into madness as it had when he was a child. 

"Master." The sound was weak, barely a whisper and Qui-Gon shifted his gaze from inward to outward again, and found it caught by a lucent and lucid grey eyed regard from his would be slave. //To no one...// he thought without knowing why and yet recognizing the truth of it. Not mastered by the riders, not by him surely. 

"You'll be all right," Qui Gon reassured artlessly, applying more pressure and frowning when a quick, barely seen flash of pain dimmed the grey eyes momentarily. 

The fingers gripping his wrist were stronger than they had any right to be, the nails digging small half crescent shapes into his flesh. "I knew that....know that...." Obi-Wan said, his breathing shallow, making his voice unsteady and whisper soft. "You know it..." 

"I do," Qui-Gon said, gently prying the boy's fingers from his wrist. "Iska's people...they call them the Riders. I was claimed by one long ago. Iska and her people freed me of it but not before..." He stopped, watching Obi-Wan struggle for understanding. 

Understanding. Not censure, not horror although he doubted that was far behind. "You need have no fear of becoming as I am, boy," he said quietly, gently. "It is gone." 

"But not destroyed," Obi-Wan said closing his eyes. 

"No. There was no...time." No way unless he had let it take Obi-Wan then killed it before it could recover. Which he should have done. 

"Master." Another voice, unsteady but deep and Qui-Gon glanced over to see Jobi's face appear above the opening to the hidden cellar. He was bruised and shaken, pale under his swarthy complexion. Gratitude that his slave lived rather than being another body to dispose of overrode any anger Qui-Gon might have felt. 

"I thought it had killed you," Qui-Gon said. 

"No, master," Jobi said climbing out. "I heard the boy scream...saw the...saw It. I thought if I could kill Vree it would be...he was already...not dead but..." Jobi paled further. "Not a pretty end. It tried for me...or to stop me. I don't know which. We'll have to purge the under cellar. We've oil enough. Won't be able to use it for awhile. How is he?" Jobi asked letting the trap door drop. "I'm sorry, master." 

"Alive. Sane." Which was more than Qui-Gon could say for himself and be entirely sure on both counts. "See to him, Jobi. And be gentle. I think he's suffered enough at our hands, don't you?" 

The reproach brought some color back to Jobi's face and the ghost of a wry smile. 

"I'll do my best, Master. But you stay here. I'll get your boy to Iska then come back for you."  
Qui-Gon didn't argue and said nothing as Jobi used his tunic sash to bind the makeshift bandage around Obi-Wan's torso and carry him up the stairs. Qui-Gon could hear Iska muttering orders and imprecations, but it all faded into the general noise in his head. 

The whispers did not fade even when Jobi returned to help him up the stairs and to his room. But they were murmurs, almost ignorable if he concentrated. 

And concentrate he did, if not on his own and Obi-Wan's recovery then on the question that remained unanswered: He had not destroyed the Rider. It had not taken him, nor Jobi or Iska and Vree was dead. So where had it gone? 

<<<>>>

In her dream she was drowning. Locked in a mechanical cage that shuffled through the dark water and up into the light, brief moments of air and warmth before plunging back into darkness again. 

And the voices whispered at her as her lungs ached for air. "You must be trained to be a good mount." 

Training. She shivered, feeling cold for the first time in hours, her eyes heavy and sticky, like they were glued shut. She tried to open them, to be fully present and alert as she had been taught, but it as if she was paralyzed. She couldn't move, could barely breathe, a heavy weight settling on her chest. She gasped, managing to force one word out between her lips, a single word to save her before she was carried under: "Master." 

<<<>>>

Mace jerked instantly awake, the feel of the Force pounding around him, like a ocean storm. "Jana." He grabbed his lightsaber and ran, enhancing his speed from one breath to the next. He slammed open the door to her room, sensing her unnatural quietness, feeling the pressure surround him the moment he burst threw the door. 

Pulsing like the beat of a heart, a grey-black ooze had formed over Jana's skin. Mace didn't think, letting the Force guide his moves, his saberblade searing through the gel, so close to her that he could smell the tiny hairs on her arms char and burn. Quick movement: arms, legs and eyes moving him as fast as the mind could perceive and opening and move before the thing could respond, trying to burn away the grey prison. 

It screamed when it died, a sentient's voice, but one that made Mace shiver. He scouted through Jana's room with all his senses, making certain no others poised for the attack. 

Nothing. 

He powered his blade down and moved to where Jana lay on the bed. She was nicked in places, the skin cauterized from the saber, but none of the wounds looked too bad. Her brows had been seared off, and her padawan braid was singed through as well, but she herself survived. 

She said nothing, though, and that worried him. "Jana." His deep voice resonated in the room, to no response. He placed his hand on her cheek cold and moist, and her pulse was rapid but faint. Shock? Or the residue from whatever it was that attacked her. 

He pulled his hand away and sniffed at the residue. Salt, but oily. He didn't know what it was. "Padawan," he said again, his voice firm. "I am here. Breathe, and let my voice carry you back to the present time." 

She shuddered then; he noticed that there was a pool of oil and sweat and something that had stained the bedding. Abruptly, he stood and scooped her up off the mattress, the grip on his saber making it awkward. He would bathe her and put her to sleep in his own room, while he tried to figure this out. 

If he could contact the council, he could get their advice. 

But the transmitter was out, and couldn't be fixed. Coincidence? The will of the force? Or something else. No guards had appeared, so whatever it was had either gotten through the security system, or been allowed to breech their walls. But what could do...it was as if the creature was some sort of Force user. 

A possibility, Mace thought as he squatted on the floor of the bathroom, Jana curled in his lap, her chest braced against his, her head resting against his neck. He got her balanced, and held her to him with one arm as he managed to turn the water on either the other. And if that was so, then maybe they were not here merely to certify the planet for membership in the republic. 

They were being hunted. 

<<<>>>

Jobi had barely finished applying the bandages to Obi-Wan's chest when the youth suddenly drew a sharp breath and tensed, coming to full consciousness with a rush of color to his face. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Qui-Gon reached for him automatically, his eyes caught by the sudden color in the high cheeks as if he had not realized that Obi-Wan had been pale before. 

On the heels of that thought, in the moment that their eyes met, he also heard silence in his own mind. There were no whispers, no murmurs, no insistent suggestions. It was as if the world held its breath for just that moment. 

Then it was past and the unintelligible murmuring began again but a notch lower in intensity, bearable. Qui-Gon found his hand covered by two smaller, squarer ones and Jobi looking from one man to the other while Iska chuckled softly to herself as she carried the pink-tinged water in the basin to the bath to dispose of it. 

"It's dead. Destroyed. That Rider..." Obi-Wan said, his gaze still locked with Qui-Gon's and it was on the tip of Qui-Gon's tongue to say 'of course it is,' save until that very moment he had not known it and in the very same instant became absolutely sure that it was true. 

<<<>>>

Mace bathed her gently, making sure that he erased all trace of residue from her body. He found bits in her ears and along her eyes, up her nose, and every entrance to her body. He made sure he stayed aware, projecting warm and comforting thoughts as he cleaned her, but the violation of her body was he closed his eyes, and swallowed, opening them again when he was re-centered. 

It became almost a ritual cleansing, Mace unsure when the ritual would be finished save perhaps when Jana opened her eyes, acknowledged his presence, spoke, something. Gentle probes through the Force revealed only minor body trauma in addition to the wounds he'd inflicted but the psychic trauma was deeper. Jana did not try and repulse those probes. If anything, she was more open, her own shields ragged and torn in places but the edges were knitting back together giving him hope that she would be able to recover totally. 

He dried her as carefully as he had washed her, carrying her back to his chambers and redressing in her in one of his own tunics far too large but he had an unreasonable revulsion to reentering her rooms to fetch her things. Those essentials of her belongings: her saber, her personal kit, he moved from room to room by Force will alone. He repacked them all in his own bag and on sealing it realized he had already come to the decision not to remain in the palace a moment longer than necessary. 

Jana was breathing normally but still just shy of comatose. Separating a part of himself from monitoring his padawan, he searched the rooms assigned to her once more, trying to gather as much information about the creature as he could for when he was able to report. It was distasteful in the extreme the cloying presence seeming to still hang about the room like some kind of low hanging oily smoke. Vague traces of the sentience could still be felt like a Force signature and he tracked it, wondering if the creature had a lair or a nest if there were more of the things, close by. 

He sensed no other similar entity, either in the room or beyond but there were blanks spots, like blank walls suddenly appearing in a corridor. Not many, but a few and closer than he was comfortable with. The specific trail, however, did not terminate in the palace but beyond, and altered subtly the further he traced it...changing slightly. A lightening and easing of the cloying presence. 

And he thought he'd lost it entirely, meeting up with another kind of wall -- not blank but bright and almost familiar. A Force presence. Not Jedi but...close, different, slightly alien but not as forbidding. 

It was a place to start and Force willing...maybe a place to hide until he could find a way to contact the council or at least get Jana and himself off this thrice cursed planet. 

The moment had come. A centering breath and a summoning of all his senses, decades of training called into play to cover many fronts as he shouldered their pack and took Jana into his arms, his saber in one hand but inactive. He anchored his awareness marginally in Jana to forestall her crying out in shock or fear should she come to her senses suddenly and then masked them both. 

_We are not here...you see nothing and no one..._

...sent among the minds closest to them, masking their passage from living and mechanical senses alike. They were a story above and a wing over from the gardens and Mace headed that way, moving silently as a shadow. Living things in the garden could mask their passage. 

It was easier than he thought. Easier than it should have been which made him doubly suspicious. He found a hidden, shadowy spot in the garden, waiting with a patience he did not feel for any indication their passage had been noticed. There were lights on still in the wing of the palace reserved for the governor, his family, and staff. There was still music and sound beyond the walls. The festival of Mother Night would not be done until dawn tinged the skies. 

Which wouldn't be that long, he thought, looking around. Already a false dawn lightened the sky. 

Jana stirred, remained silent and blinked up at him, seeking tentatively along their bond and Mace responded with reassurance and a quick flash of white teeth in the darkness. "Welcome back, padawan," he murmured, no more than an exhalation of air the rustling of a night bird among the foliage. 

There was distress there he could feel it but his padawan was well trained and resilient. She might give in to her emotions later, as Mace himself was tempted to do but for this moment, she was fully aware of their peril. Without speaking she shifted, leaving the comfort of Mace's embrace to crouch next to him. She trembled slightly but her face was set and he nodded, reaching into the pack to hand her her saber, then led the way, through the shadows to the wall. At Jana's indication that she was ready, they cleared the high expanse, touching lightly on the wide upper ledge to check their path. Rough cobbles lay beneath them and they touched down, silently as feathers. 

Jana's free hand crept into her master's, a light grip with no fear of being rejected. Mace's fingers tightened around hers and he brushed his lips to her pale forehead in a rare show of affection before he once more picked up that broken trail and led her along the edge of the palace wall and back toward the city. 

<<<>>>

Qui-Gon thought perhaps he should say something of the Rider's attack on Obi-Wan, but the boy seemed disinclined to speak after his pronouncement of the Rider's death, watching his master with haunted, hooded eyes. Qui-Gon left the care of his slave to his other slaves and did no more for his own comfort than accept the cushion Jobi set to his back at the foot of his bed and the stimulant drink Iska prepared. She gave something similar to Obi-Wan although the aroma was subtly different. Something to make him relax enough to sleep perhaps, but he did not. The blue eyes would fix on Qui-Gon every time he made a movement larger than to take a deep breath, then the gaze would slip away again, Obi-Wan never quite meeting Jinn's eyes. 

Other than that he was still and Qui-Gon could not tell if he were harboring his strength or in pain. The expressive face was curiously blank, but understandably so. Jinn's recollection of his encounter with the Riders had left him screaming his fear to the night winds. But he need only recall the screams that had ripped through the earlier evening to know it was not lack of fear that held Obi-Wan so silent and tense. 

Dawn was but a few hours away and fatigue finally laid claim to Qui-Gon. He was sore enough to decide against sleeping where he sat. He would be stiff enough later without at least allowing his muscles to stretch and he shifted, laying down finally, beside Obi-Wan. 

Seeing their master settle, Iska did the same, laying her crooked body on the pallet earlier set up for Obi-Wan. Jobi made a tour of the household, extinguishing some lamps, lighting others before settling in the doorway of Qui-Gon's rooms with his long handled chopping knife resting across his knees. By sheer bulk alone he blocked the doorway, a living barrier to any other disturbances. 

<<<>>>

Jobi did not put out the lights in the room and had Obi-Wan been able to formulate the words, he would have thanked the man, as it was, he only continued to think about breathing in and out. Using the necessary air to keep himself from screaming. 

He was pathetically grateful when Qui-Gon moved on the bed to lay beside him another feeling refusing to be expressed but it was there nonetheless. All other violations meted out to him by this man's hands aside, he had freed Obi-Wan from the Rider's terrifying and foul embrace. He understood desire, and he understood the rights of a Master to correct a slave as he saw fit. But the other...the thing that attacked him...it had been far worse than anything Jinn had done to him; those indignities had never touched his soul. 

And his Master had saved him from that, leaving Obi-Wan awash with a mixture of satisfaction and outrage. Why had he been beaten before? Why did Jinn take such care of him now? To repay the debt he owed his master with anything less than absolute slavish devotion, ironic as it was was far too weak an expression of his gratitude. It came to him in the midst of his confusion and fear and pain that he was almost close to begging Jinn to take him again and wipe out the last impressions the Rider had left in his body and mind. It was not really desire that guided his thoughts that way, save the desire to erase the entire possession. The public brothels would be better than enduring such a thing again. 

His body begged sleep but his mind shied away from the idea of it, struggling to stay awake and aware, alert to any further threat. He dug his fingernails into his palms as earlier he had done to his master, the minor pain a focus and a distraction. 

Longer, stronger fingers eased the small lacerations and Obi-Wan turned his head just enough to see Qui-Gon watching him. Instead of pain there was comfort as his master's hand wrapped around his. The steady gaze locked with his for long moments until he felt a kind of connection slide into place, subtle as a new breeze. When Jinn's eyes closed, so did Obi-Wan's. 

It could have been hours or only moments before his feeling of safety was dispelled by the sound of someone pounding on the door below. Jobi was up and moving even before Obi-Wan fully registered what was happening. He grunted softly as Jinn reached across him for a thick deep box on the table beside Obi-Wan's side of the bed. 

Qui-Gon, lifted the box and keyed the small lock, withdrawing a thick metallic tube with a narrowed tip. Very much like the power cutters Obi-Wan had used at the energy plant, only larger. "Get to your feet," Jinn said urgently, softly, and pressed his own sheath knife into Obi-Wan's hand. "Follow Iska if it comes to it," he said and rolled awkwardly off the bed, holding his side but moving with grim faced determination toward the door, shouldering on his robe as he moved. 

Iska poked him and held up yet another tunic. This one was one of those that Qui-Gon slept in. Too long for Obi-Wan but he used the side ties to knot the fabric so he wouldn't trip on it. When he was dressed, Iska gripped his elbow and led him into the bath, to the shelving along one wall and tugged and pulled and pressed on a series of levers that let a section of the wall move. Beyond was a small alcove and a narrow stair. 

She made no move to descend though, only hovered at the entrance, listening intently and Obi-Wan tried to keep his breathing quiet. One too many threats in a short period of time and his mind displayed a distressing tendency to erupt in panic. 

Qui-Gon had given him a knife. The same knife he had threatened Obi-Wan with only two days before. Two days. His entire life had altered in just a few hours. He fingered the blade wondering if Jinn had meant him to use it to defend himself, Iska, or to use it in defense of his master. But no, for he had told him to follow Iska and for all her age and physical challenges, Iska hardly seemed to need his protection on any level. 

He had no idea what threat to expect what or now challenged his master. Where there was one Rider, were there more? Come to take their revenge on Jinn? On Obi-Wan? The sharp tip pressed to his hand barely piercing flesh and he left it there, letting his new tunic's dark color hide the growing bloodstain. 

<<<>>>

The faint trail had almost faded entirely by the time Mace found his goal, and Jana was nearly at the end of her stamina and reserves. The back streets and less savory alleys and roadways of Hellesta's less affluent neighborhoods were confusing, twisting back on themselves and dead ends sprang up without notice as new structures had merely been fit in between the old wherever the need or space existed. This section was not quite the slums but lay in that precarious position of being not quite the abodes and business of the business classes but still more affluent than the crumbling neighborhoods near the city's outer walls. 

They seemed to circle the building where the trail ended forever before finding a narrow alley that actually led to the green marked door. A faded guild mark ran along the lintel, its exact translation escaping Mace. Jana might be able to identify it were she in a better mental state but as it was he had shifted the grip she had on his arm to his cloak to have both hands free. 

Even as he knocked his mind worked to provide a tale he could tell to a complete stranger to explain rousing the household at such an early hour. Yet there was a presence here, not the marked and darkened trail of the creature he had tracked thus far, but a shifting sluggish feel to the Force surrounding this place. Perhaps no explanations would be needed after all. 

The door opened slowly, with no light beyond. The shadow further marking the opening was huge, taller than Mace and broader, blocking the way and any view beyond. 

"What service, Master?" a deep voice rumbled, polite and bland. "It's late for visiting, early for hiring." 

"Your pardon, citizen," Mace said. "We're strangers here and have lost our way. My companion was...assaulted and needs to rest." Only slightly off the truth. Mace was lost but no so lost he couldn't make his way out. "I thought I saw a light here." And further off to the extent of Mace's ability to lie and do it convincingly. 

"We are neither an inn nor a hostel," the large shadow said. "End of the alley and to your left. Look for the sign of the falling rain and you'll find a bed for the night what's left of it." 

"We have gone as far as we can," Mace said, putting some persuasion into his voice but the blockage remained unmoved. "Surely you can offer a few hours of rest for strangers such as we?" 

"We aren't a charitable house either," The man said and this time there was color to his voice, annoyance and some impatience. 

"Master...inside..." Jana hissed, softly and insistently. 

Mace had been concentrating on the man at the door but Jana, a credit to her training, had reached beyond and found a more susceptible mind. 

"We seek no charity, only assistance and maybe..." Mace was gambling recklessly, his hand hovering free, ready to summon his saber. "Protection from the dark," and this time he pushed past the giant at the door to the mind beyond. 

Silent moments passed before the giant stepped back and a light flared illuminating the doorway and its now two occupants. Their giant was just that, a big man, broad and muscled, swarthy face unshaven and red haired. Beside him stood another man, tall, but not so broad, silver grey threaded liberally through the long fall of brown and black, a strong jaw obscured by an equally brown and grey beard but well kept as the rest of the man seemed not to be. The gaze from the blue eyes was as cold and remote as that of his giant friend. 

"The night will break in an hour or so," the second man said, leaning against the doorway in a casual stance, but Mace was not beguiled. The man was near a state of collapse and going to great pains to hide it. 

"Not all darkness comes in the night, nor leaves with the dawn," Mace said. "I think you know this as well as I." 

Blue eyes studied Mace closely. "We see few strangers here." 

"It is not the most hospitable of places. Especially at night." Mace kept his tone calm, lacing the undercurrent as heavily as he dared and freeing one arm to come around Jana's shoulders and help support her. There was a sensitivity here, but it was sluggish, muddled, almost as if there were a Force dampener at work. It wasn't external as far as Mace could tell, not a result of smuggled or illicit technology. 

"No, it's not. Jobi," their host, obviously the master of the house turned to the giant. "Tell Iska we have guests. The smaller room will do." 

Both men cleared the doorway: the giant called Jobi heading up the stairs while the other stepped back, gesturing for Mace and Jana to enter and take seats in the small entrance room. Mace did so, still alert, settling his apprentice on one of the low padded couches. Jana blinked at him but managed to stay upright. 

"Thank you," Mace said, turning to face his host and bowed slightly. "My name is Mace. This is my apprentice, Jana." 

"You may call me Jinn," the other man said and eased himself onto another bench, his eyes were fixed on Jana, but not staring outright. "Jobi will bring you refreshment. Do you need food? A place to rest?" 

"The last most of all," Mace said. "This has been a strange night not a festival of the kind I was thinking of." 

Jinn's chuckle was dry and humorless. "No. It's not for everyone. You said you were strangers? From beyond Hellesta?" 

"Some distance, yes," Mace said and glanced up as a crone appeared next to Jobi at the head of the stairs. Her face and arms were marked, tattoo like scars decorating her skin. Jobi pushed past her, fetching a decanter and goblets. Behind him, Iska made a low noise like the clucking of some bird and Jinn rose, eyebrows drawn together as he tried to understand the rapid sounds. 

Mace wasn't sure what was happening. He understood the woman not at all, and understood less when a boy appeared beside her; She gripped his tunic and pulled him forward. The newcomer was no older than Jana, as bruised and as pale as Jana, and as haggard as Jinn. Iska's grip on the boy's tunic exposed the bandaging underneath at the long vee of the neckline and more bruising of the skin. One eye swollen, his gaze was fixed on first Mace then Jinn and back again. Iska prodded at him again, roughly and he stepped onto the stairs, gripping the broad rail. 

"What is it, Obi-Wan?" Jinn asked, voice gentling from the sharp tones he had exchanged with both Jobi and Iska. He took a step up as if to meet the boy. 

Like a door opening or a dam suddenly broken, Mace felt the muddied, stalled currents of the Force clear and move solidly between the two men, younger to older. Strength in the latter, clarity in the former. 

"That one, Master," Obi-Wan said, eyes fixed on Mace again. "He was the one that killed the Rider," he said and walked carefully down the steps until he came to Jinn's side, who set a broad hand on his shoulder to steady him. 

Jinn regarded Mace solemnly and looked to Jana next, some hint of recognition in his eyes. "Protection from the night and assaulted by...not revelers... ?" 

"No," Mace said, belatedly accepted the goblet Jobi held out, and offered it to Jana first, and steadying the cup as she drank. The strong aroma of spirits assaulted his nose and he sipped as well. Strong but not enough to render either of them senseless. "Nothing I've ever seen and I have seen much, Master Jinn." 

Jinn nodded. "No chance meeting, Master Mace," he said, eyes narrowing. "How did you find us?" 

"I have...skills. Not unlike your own, it would seem." Mace folded his hands into the sleeves of his robe. "I was able to backtrack the creature here." 

The idea seemed to disturb Jinn. "There are others. You may not be any safer here than wherever you were." 

"It was not my intent to endanger your household," Mace said, and undercurrent of reassurance in his tone. Behind him he felt Jana's presence falter again. "She does need rest...I have my own protections to offer." 

"If you killed a Rider, you did better than I," Jinn said, his grip on Obi-Wan's shoulder shifting to pull him closer. "We will talk more, good Master. Iska has a room prepared. Jobi will secure the house." 

As an interview it was unsatisfying, but Jinn had dismissed him with all the authority of a prince, guiding his slender companion up the stairs and into a room while Mace followed offering similar assistance to Jana. He caught only the barest glimpse of Jinn pulling the tunic off the younger man and pushing him toward a broad bed before Iska pulled the drape and gestured to another room across the hall. A single bed, freshly if hastily made, a pitcher of water and basic amenities. 

Mace steered Jana toward the bed and got her under the blankets before she keeled over asleep or collapsed from exhaustion or something between the two. The lights in the hall were dimmed and Mace settled on the bed next to his apprentice, one hand on his saber, the other resting on Jana's head while he waited for what the day would bring. 

THE END


End file.
